NATIONAL 


JOHN  MUIR 


UNiVC-SITY 

o 


SEQUOIAS,   MARIPOSA  GROVE   (Page  134) 


OUR  NATIONAL 
PARKS 


BY  JOHN  MUIE 


ITY    t 

<jr 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

Cambribge 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,   IQOI,  BY  JOHN   MUIR 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  November,  igoi. 


i  C 


TO 

CHARLES  SPEAGUE  SARGENT 

STEADFAST  LOVER  AND  DEFENDER 

OF  OUR  COUNTRY'S  FORESTS 

THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 


118526 


PREFACE 

IN  this  book,  made  up  of  sketches  first  pub- 
lished in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  I  have  done  the 
best  I  could  to  show  forth  the  beauty,  gran- 
deur, and  all-embracing  usefulness  of  our  wild 
mountain  forest  reservations  and  parks,  with  a 
view  to  inciting  the  people  to  come  and  enjoy 
them,  and  get  them  into  their  hearts,  that  so  at 
length  their  preservation  and  right  use  might  be 
made  sure 

MARTINEZ,  CALIFORNIA 
September,  1901 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  WILD  PARKS  AND    FOREST    RESERVATIONS 

OF  THE  WEST 1 

II.   THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 37 

III.  THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 76 

IV.  THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK     ....    98 
V.   THE  WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK     .  137 

VI.  AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE     .    .    .172 
VII.  AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE      .     .     .    .213 
VIII.  THE  FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

NATIONAL  PARK 241 

IX.  THE  SEQUOIA  AND    GENERAL  GRANT  NATIONAL 

PARKS 268 

X.  THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS ,  .  331 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


SEQUOIAS,  MARIPOSA  GROVE  (page  134)      .    Frontispiece 
FOREST  KESERVES   AND  NATIONAL  PARKS  IN  WESTERN 

UNITED  STATES     .............      2 

From  a  map  furnished  by  the  courtesy  of  the  United 
States  Geological  Survey. 
PAVEMENT  OP  BASALTIC   COLUMNS  WORN  BY  GLACIAL 

ACTION,  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK    ......    86 

TIMBER  LINE  AT  THOUSAND    ISLET    LAKE,  NEAR  MT. 

BITTER,  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK    ......  100 

AZALEA  THICKET,  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK    ....  146 

ONE  OF  THE  KINGS  RIVER  FOUNTAINS,  SIERRA  FOREST 

RESERVE   ................  210 

VIEW  FROM  GLACIER  POINT,  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  228 
YOSEMITE  WOODS  IN  WINTER  ..........  250 

TUOLUMNE  CASCADE,  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK   .     .    .  258 
YOUNG  BIG  TREE  FELLED  FOR  SHINGLES  ......  298 

A  LOGHOUSE  OF  ONE  LOG,  GIANT  FOREST  OF  THE  KA- 

WEAH    .................  306 

ROAD  THROUGH  THE  SEQUOIAS,  MARIPOSA  GROVE  .    .    .  350 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   WILD    PARKS   AND    FOREST   RESERVATIONS 
OF    THE    WEST 

"  Keep  not  standing  fix'd  and  rooted, 

Briskly  venture,  briskly  roam ; 
Head  and  hand,  where'er  thou  foot  it, 

And  stout  heart  are  still  at  home. 
In  each  land  the  sun  does  visit 

We  are  gay,  whate'er  betide : 
To  give  room,  for  wandering  is  it 

That  the  world  was  made  so  wide." 

THE  tendency  nowadays  to  wander  in  wilder- 
nesses is  delightful  to  see.  Thousands  of  tired, 
nerve-shaken,  over-civilized  people  are  beginning 
to  find  out  that  going  to  the  mountains  is  going 
home ;  that  wildness  is  a  necessity ;  and  that 
mountain  parks  and  reservations  are  useful  not 
only  as  fountains  of  timber  and  irrigating  rivers, 
but  as  fountains  of  life.  Awakening  from  the 
stupefying  effects  of  the  vice  of  over-industry 
and  the  deadly  apathy  of  luxury,  they  are  trying 
as  best  they  can  to  mix  and  enrich  their  own 
little  ongoings  with  those  of  Nature,  and  to  get 
rid  of  rust  and  disease.  Briskly  venturing  and 


2  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

roaming,  some  are  washing  off  sins  and  cobweb 
cares  of  the  devil's  spinning  in  all-day  storms  on 
mountains ;  sauntering  in  rosiny  pinewoods  or 
in  gentian  meadows,  brushing  through  chaparral, 
bending  down  and  parting  sweet,  flowery  sprays ; 
tracing  rivers  to  their  sources,  getting  in  touch 
with  the  nerves  of  Mother  Earth  ;  jumping  from 
rock  to  rock,  feeling  the  life  of  them,  learning 
the  songs  of  them,  panting  in  whole-souled  exer- 
cise, and  rejoicing  in  deep,  long-drawn  breaths 
of  pure  wildness.  This  is  fine  and  natural  and 
full  of  promise.  So  also  is  the  growing  in- 
terest in  the  care  and  preservation  of  forests 
and  wild  places  in  general,  and  in  the  half  wild 
parks  and  gardens  of  towns.  Even  the  scenery 
habit  in  its  most  artificial  forms,  mixed  with 
spectacles,  silliness,  and  kodaks ;  its  devotees 
arrayed  more  gorgeously  than  scarlet  tanagers, 
frightening  the  wild  game  with  red  umbrellas, 
—  even  this  is  encouraging,  and  may  well  be 
regarded  as  a  hopeful  sign  of  the  times. 

All  the  Western  mountains  are  still  rich  in 
wildness,  and  by  means  of  good  roads  are  being 
brought  neater  civilization  every  year.  To  the 
sane  and  free  it  will  hardly  seem  necessary  to 
cross  the  continent  in  search  of  wild  beauty, 
however  easy  the  way,  for  they  find  it  in  abun- 
dance wherever  they  chance  to  be.  Like  Tho- 
reau  they  see  forests  in  orchards  and  patches  of 
huckleberry  brush,  and  oceans  in  ponds  and 


LOCATION  AND  EXTENT 

OF  THE 


POREST  RESERVES  &  NATIONAL  PARKS 


WESTERN  UNITED  STATES 

To  3rd,  August,  1901. 
Scale  of  Mile* 


0        50      100 

l-V.v.v.-.-.l  FOREST  RESERVES 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  8 

drops  of  dew.  Few  in  these  hot,  dim,  strenuous 
times  are  quite  sane  or  free ;  choked  with  care 
like  clocks  full  of  dust,  laboriously  doing  so 
much  good  and  making  so  much  money,  —  or  so 
little,  —  they  are  no  longer  good  for  themselves. 
When,  like  a  merchant  taking  a  list  of  his 
goods,  we  take  stock  of  our  wildness,  we  are 
glad  to  see  how  much  of  even  the  most  destruc- 
tible kind  is  still  unspoiled.  Looking  at  our 
continent  as  scenery  when  it  was  all  wild,  lying 
between  beautiful  seas,  the  starry  sky  above  it, 
the  starry  rocks  beneath  it,  to  compare  its  sides, 
the  East  and  the  West,  would  be  like  comparing 
the  sides  of  a  rainbow.  But  it  is  no  longer 
equally  beautiful.  The  rainbows  of  to-day  are, 
I  suppose,  as  bright  as  those  that  first  spanned 
the  sky ;  and  some  of  our  landscapes  are  grow- 
ing more  beautiful  from  year  to  year,  notwith- 
standing the  clearing,  trampling  work  of  civili- 
zation. New  plants  and  animals  are  enriching 
woods  and  gardens,  and  many  landscapes  wholly 
new,  with  divine  sculpture  and  architecture,  are 
just  now  coming  to  the  light  of  day  as  the  man- 
tling folds  of  creative  glaciers  are  being  with- 
drawn, and  life  in  a  thousand  cheerful,  beautiful 
forms  is  pushing  into  them,  and  new-born  rivers 
are  beginning  to  sing  and  shine  in  them.  The 
old  rivers,  too,  are  growing  longer,  like  healthy 
trees,  gaining  new  branches  and  lakes  as  the 
residual  glaciers  at  their  highest  sources  on  the 


4  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

mountains  recede,  while  the  rootlike  branches 
in  their  flat  deltas  are  at  the  same  time  spreading 
farther  and  wider  into  the  seas  and  making  new 
lands. 

Under  the  control  of  the  vast  mysterious 
forces  of  the  interior  of  the  earth  all  the  conti- 
nents and  islands  are  slowly  rising  or  sinking. 
Most  of  the  mountains  are  diminishing  in  size 
under  the  wearing  action  of  the  weather,  though 
a  few  are'  increasing  in  height  and  girth,  espe- 
cially th«~vofeamc  ones,  as  fresh  floods  of  molten 
rocks  are  piIM..on  their  summits  and  spread  in 
successive  layers,  like  the  wood-rings  of  trees,  on 
their  sides.  New  mountains,  also,  are  being  cre- 
ated from  time  to  time  as  islands  in  lakes  and 
seas,  or  as  subordinate  cones  on  the  slopes  of  old 
ones,  thus  in  some  measure  balancing  the  waste 
of  old  beauty  with  new.  Man,  too,  is  making 
many  far-reaching  changes.  This  most'  influ- 
ential half  animal,  half  angel  is  rapidly  multiply- 
ing and  spreading,  covering  the  seas  and  lakes 
with  ships,  the  land  with  huts,  hotels,  cathedrals, 
and  clustered  city  shops  and  homes,  so  that  soon, 
it  would  seem,  we  may  have  to  go  farther  than 
Nansen  to  find  a  good  sound  solitude.  None  of 
Nature's  landscapes  are  ugly  so  long  as  they  are 
wild ;  and  much,  we  can  say  comfortingly,  must 
always  be  in  great  part  wild,  particularly  the  sea 
and  the  sky,  the  floods  of  light  from  the  stars, 
and  the  warm,  unspoilable  heart  of  the  earth, 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  5 

infinitely  beautiful,  though  only  dimly  visible  to 
the  eye  of  imagination.  The  geysers,  too, 
spouting  from  the  hot  underworld ;  the  steady, 
long-lasting  glaciers  on  the  mountains,  obedient 
only  to  the  sun  ;  Yosemite  domes  and  the  tre- 
mendous grandeur  of  rocky  canons  and  moun- 
tains in  general,  —  these  must  always  be  wild, 
for  man  can  change  them  and  mar  them  hardly 
more  than  can  the  butterflies  that  hover  above 
them.  But  the  continent's  outer  beauty  is  fast 
passing  away,  especially  the  plant  part  of  it,  the 
most  destructible  and  most  universally  charming 
of  aft 

Only  thirty  years  ago,  the  great  Central  Val- 
ley of  California,  five  hundred  miles  long  and 
fifty  miles  wide,  was  one  bed  of  golden  and  pur- 
ple flowers.  Now  it  is  ploughed  and  pastured 
out  of  existence,  gone  forever,  —  scarce  a  mem- 
ory of  it  left  in  fence  corners  and  along  the 
bluffs  of  the  streams.  The  gardens  of  the  Si- 
erra, also,  and  the  noble  forests  in  both  the  re- 
served and  unreserved  portions  are  sadly  haeked 
and  trampled,  notwithstanding  the  ruggedness 
of  the  topography,  —  all  excepting  those  of  the 
parks  guarded  by  a  few  soldiers.  In  the  noblest 
forests  of  the  world,  the  ground,  once  divinely 
beautiful,  is  desolate  and  repulsive,  like  a  face 
ravaged  by  disease.  This  is  true  also  of  many 
other  Pacific  Coast  and  Kocky  Mountain  valleys 
and  forests.  The  same  fate,  sooner  or  later,  is 


6  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

awaiting  them  all,  unless  awakening  public  opin- 
ion comes  forward  to  stop  it.  Even  the  great 
deserts  in  Arizona,  Nevada,  Utah,  and  New  Mex- 
ico, which  offer  so  little  to  attract  settlers,  and 
which  a  few  years  ago  pioneers  were  afraid  of, 
as  places  of  desolation  and  death,  are  now  taken 
as  pastures  at  the  rate  of  one  or  two  square 
miles  per  cow,  and  of  course  their  plant  treasures 
are  passing  away,  —  the  delicate  abronias, 
phloxes,  gilias,  etc.  Only  a  few  of  the  bitter, 
thorny,  unbitable  shrubs  are  left,  and  the  sturdy 
cactuses  that  defend  themselves  with  bayonets 
and  spears. 

Most  of  the  wild  plant  wealth  of  the  East  also 
has  vanished,  —  gone  into  dusty  history.  Only 
vestiges  of  its  glorious  prairie  and  woodland 
wealth  remain  to  bless  humanity  in  boggy,  rocky, 
unploughable  places.  Fortunately,  some  of  these 
are  purely  wild,  and  go  far  to  keep  Nature's  love 
visible.  White  water-lilies,  with  rootstocks  deep 
and  safe  in,  mud,  still  send  up  every  summer  a 
Milky  Way  of  starry,  fragrant  flowers  around  a 
thousand  lakes,  and  many  a  tuft  of  wild  grass 
waves  its  panicles  on  mossy  rocks,  beyond  reach 
of  trampling  feet,  in  company  with  saxifrages, 
bluebells,  and  ferns.  Even  in  the  midst  of  farm- 
ers' fields,  precious  sphagnum  bogs,  too  soft 
for  the  feet  of  cattle,  are  preserved  with  their 
charming  plants  unchanged,  —  chiogenes,  An- 
dromeda, Kalmia,  Linnsea,  Arethusa,  etc.  Ca- 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  7 

lypso  borealis  still  hides  in  the  arbor  vitse  swamps 
of  Canada,  and  away  to  the  southward  there  are 
a  few  unspoiled  swamps,  big  ones,  where  miasma, 
snakes,  and  alligators,  like  guardian  angels,  de- 
fend their  treasures  and  keep  them  as  pure  as 
paradise.  And  beside  a'  that  and  a'  that,  the 
East  is  blessed  with  good  winters  and  blossoming 
clouds  that  shed  white  flowers  over  all  the  land, 
covering  every  scar  and  making  the  saddest  land- 
scape divine  at  least  once  a  year. 

The  most  extensive,  least  spoiled,  and  most 
unspoilable  of  the  gardens  of  the  continent  are 
the  vast  tundras  of  Alaska.  In  summer  they 
extend  smooth,  even,  undulating,  continuous  beds 
of  flowers  and  leaves  from  about  lat.  62°  to 
the  shores  of  the  Arctic  Ocean ;  and  in  winter 
sheets  of  snowflowers  make  all  the  country  shine, 
one  mass  of  white  radiance  like  a  star.  Nor  are 
these  Arctic  plant  people  the  pitiful  frost-pinched 
unfortunates  they  are  guessed  to  be  by  those  who 
have  never  seen  them.  Though  lowly  in  stature, 
keeping  near  the  frozen  ground  as  if  loving  it, 
they  are  bright  and  cheery,  and  speak  Nature's 
love  as  plainly  as  their  big  relatives  of  the  South. 
Tenderly  happed  and  tucked  in  beneath  downy 
snow  to  sleep  through  the  long,  white  winter, 
they  make  haste  to  bloom  in  the  spring  without 
trying  to  grow  tall,  though  some  rise  high  enough 
to  ripple  and  wave  in  the  wind,  and  display 
masses  of  color,  —  yellow,  purple,  and  blue,  —  so 


8  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

rich  that  they  look  like  beds  of  rainbows,  and 
are  visible  miles  and  miles  away. 

As  early  as  June  one  may  find  the  showy  Geum 
glaciale  in  flower,  and  the  dwarf  willows  putting 
forth  myriads  of  fuzzy  catkins,  to  be  followed 
quickly,  especially  on  the  dryer  ground,  by  mer- 
tensia,  eritrichium,  polemonium,  oxytropis,  astra- 
galus, lathyrus,  lupinus,  myosotis,  dodecatheon, 
arnica,  chrysanthemum,  nardosmia,  saussurea, 
senecio,  erigeron,  matrecaria,  caltha,  valeriana, 
stellaria,  Tofieldia,  polygonum,  papaver,  phlox, 
lychnis,  cheiranthus,  Linnsea,  and  a  host  of  dra- 
bas,  saxifrages,  and  heathworts,  with  bright  stars 
and  bells  in  glorious  profusion,  particularly  Cassi- 
ope,  Andromeda,  ledum,  pyrola,  and  vaecinium, 

—  Cassiope  the  most  abundant  and  beautiful  of 
them    all.     Many  grasses  also    grow  here,  and 
wave  fine  purple  spikes  and  panicles  over  the 
other  flowers,  —  poa,  aira,  calamagrostis,  alope- 
curus,  trisetum,    elymus,   festuca,  glyceria,  etc. 
Even  ferns  are  found  thus  far  north,  carefully 
and  comfortably  unrolling  their  precious  fronds, 

—  aspidium,  cystopteris,  and  woodsia,  all  grow- 
ing on  a  sumptuous  bed  of  mosses  and  lichens ; 
not  the  scaly  lichens  seen  on  rails  and  trees  and 
fallen  logs  to  the  southward,  but  massive,  round- 
headed,  finely  colored  plants  like  corals,  wonder- 
fully beautiful,  worth  going  round  the  world  to 
see.     I   should   like   to  mention   all   the   plant 
friends  I  found   in  a  summer's  wanderings   in 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  9 

this  cool  reserve,  but  I  fear  few  would  care  to 
read  their  names,  although  everybody,  I  am  sure, 
would  love  them  could  they  see  them  blooming 
and  rejoicing  at  home. 

On  my  last  visit  to  the  region  about  Kotzebue 
Sound,  near  the  middle  of  September,  1881,  the 
weather  was  so  fine  and  mellow  that  it  suggested 
the  Indian  summer  of  the  Eastern  States.  The 
winds  were  hushed,  the  tundra  glowed  in  creamy 
golden  sunshine,  and  the  colors  of  the  ripe  foli- 
age of  the  heath  worts,  willows,  and  birch  —  red, 
purple,  and  yellow,  in  pure  bright  tones  —  were 
enriched  with  those  of  berries  which  were  scat- 
tered everywhere',  as  if  they  had  been  showered 
from  the  clouds  like  hail.  When  I  was  back  a 
mile  or  two  from  the  shore,  reveling  in  this  color- 
glory,  and  thinking  how  fine  it  would  be  could  I 
cut  a  square  of  the  tundra  sod  of  conventional 
picture  size,  frame  it,  and  hang  it  among  the 
paintings  on  my  study  walls  at  home,  saying  to 
myself,  "  Such  a  Nature  painting  taken  at  ran- 
dom from  any  part  of  the  thousand-mile  bog 
would  make  the  other  pictures  look  dim  and 
coarse,"  I  heard  merry  shouting,  and,  looking 
round,  saw  a  band  of  Eskimos  —  men,  women, 
and  children,  loose  and  hairy  like  wild  animals 
—  running  towards  me.  I  could  not  guess  at 
first  what  they  were  seeking,  for  they  seldom 
leave  the  shore ;  but  soon  they  told  me,  as  they 
threw  themselves  down,  sprawling  and  laughing, 


10  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

on  the  mellow  bog,  and  began  to  feast  on  the 
berries.  A  lively  picture  they  made,  and  a  pleas- 
ant one,  as  they  frightened  the  whirring  ptarmi- 
gans, and  surprised  their  oily  stomachs  with  the 
beautiful  acid  berries  of  many  kinds,  and  filled 
sealskin  bags  with  them  to  carry  away  for  festive 
days  in  winter. 

Nowhere  else  on  my  travels  have  I  seen  so 
much  warm-blooded,  rejoicing  life  as  in  this 
grand  Arctic  reservation,  by  so  many  regarded 
as  desolate.  Not  only  are  there  whales  in  abun- 
dance along  the  shores,  and  innumerable  seals, 
walruses,  and  white  bears,  but  on  the  tundras 
great  herds  of  fat  reindeer  and  wild  sheep,  foxes, 
hares,  mice,  piping  marmots,  and  birds.  Perhaps 
more  birds  are  born  here  than  in  any  other  re- 
gion of  equal  extent  on  the  continent.  Not  only 
do  strong-winged  hawks,  eagles,  and  water-fowl, 
to  whom  the  length  of  the  continent  is  merely  a 
pleasant  excursion,  come  up  here  every  summer 
in  great  numbers,  but  also  many  short-winged 
warblers,  thrushes,  and  finches,  repairing  hither 
to  rear  their  young  in  safety,  reinforce  the  plant 
bloom  with  their  plumage,  and  sweeten  the  wil- 
derness with  song;  flying  all  the  way,  some  of 
them,  from  Florida,  Mexico,  and  Central  Amer- 
ica. In  coming  north  they  are  coming  home, 
for  they  were  born  here,  and  they  go  south  only 
to  spend  the  winter  months,  as  New  Englanders 
go  to  Florida.  Sweet-voiced  troubadours,  they 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  11 

sing  in  orange  groves  and  vine-clad  magnolia 
woods  in  winter,  in  thickets  of  dwarf  birch  and 
alder  in  summer,  and  sing  and  chatter  more  or 
less  all  the  way  back  and  forth,  keeping  the 
whole  country  glad.  Oftentimes,  in  New  Eng- 
land, just  as  the  last  snow-patches  are  melting 
and  the  sap  in  the  maples  begins  to  flow,  the 
blessed  wanderers  may  be  heard  about  orchards 
and  the  edges  of  fields  where  they  have  stopped 
to  glean  a  scanty  meal,  not  tarrying  long,  know- 
ing they  have  far  to  go.  Tracing  the  footsteps 
of  spring,  they  arrive  in  their  tundra  homes  in 
June  or  July,  and  set  out  on  their  return  journey 
in  September,  or  as  soon  as  their  families  are  able 
to  fly  well. 

This  is  Nature's  own  reservation,  and  every 
lover  of  wildness  will  rejoice  with  me  that  by 
kindly  frost  it  is  so  well  defended.  The  discov- 
ery lately  made  that  it  is  sprinkled  with  gold 
may  cause  some  alarm ;  for  the  strangely  excit- 
ing stuff  makes  the  timid  bold  enough  for  any- 
thing, and  the  lazy  destructively  industrious. 
Thousands  at  least  half  insane  are  now  pushing 
their  way  into  it,  some  by  the  southern  passes 
over  the  mountains,  perchance  the  first  moun- 
tains they  have  ever  seen,  —  sprawling,  strug- 
gling, gasping  for  breath,  as,  laden  with  awkward, 
merciless  burdens  of  provisions  and  tools,  they 
climb  over  rough-angled  boulders  and  cross  thin 
miry  bogs.  Some  are  going  by  the  mountains 


12  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  rivers  to  the  eastward  through  Canada, 
tracing  the  old  romantic  ways  of  the  Hudson 
Bay  traders ;  others  by  Bering  Sea  and  the  Yu- 
kon, sailing  all  the  way,  getting  glimpses  per- 
haps of  the  famous  fur-seals,  the  ice-floes,  and 
the  innumerable  islands  and  bars  of  the  great 
Alaska  river.  In  spite  of  frowning  hardships 
and  the  frozen  ground,  the  Klondike  gold  will 
increase  the  crusading  crowds  for  years  to  come, 
but  comparatively  little  harm  will  be  done. 
Holes  wih1  be  burned  and  dug  into  the  hard 
ground  here  and  there,  and  into  the  quartz-ribbed 
mountains  and  hills ;  ragged  towns  like  beaver 
and  muskrat  villages  will  be  built,  and  mills  and 
locomotives  will  make  rumbling,  screeching,  dis- 
enchanting noises  ;  but  the  miner's  pick  will  not 
be  followed  far  by  the  plough,  at  least  not  until 
Nature  is  ready  to  unlock  the  frozen  soil-beds 
with  her  slow-turning  climate  key.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  roads  of  the  pioneer  miners  will  lead 
many  a  lover  of  wildness  into  the  heart  of  the 
reserve,  who  without  them  would  never  see  it. 

In  the  meantime,  the  wildest  health  and  plea- 
sure grounds  accessible  and  available  to  tourists 
seeking  escape  from  care  and  dust  and  early 
death  are  the  parks  and  reservations  of  the  West. 
There  are  four  national  parks,1  —  the  Yellow- 
stone, Yosemite,  General  Grant,  and  Sequoia,  — 
all  within  easy  reach,  and  thirty  forest  reserva- 

1  There  are  now  five  parks  and  thirty-eight  reservations. 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  13 

tions,  a  magnificent  realm  of  woods,  most  of 
which,  by  railroads  and  trails  and  open  ridges,  is 
also  fairly  accessible,  not  only  to  the  determined 
traveler  rejoicing  in  difficulties,  but  to  those  (may 
their  tribe  increase)  who,  not  tired,  not  sick,  just 
naturally  take  wing  every  summer  in  search  of 
wildness.  The  forty  million  acres  of  these  re- 
serves are  in  the  main  unspoiled  as  yet,  though 
sadly  wasted  and  threatened  on  their  more  open 
margins  by  the  axe  and  fire  of  the  lumberman 
and  prospector,  and  by  hoofed  locusts,  which, 
like  the  winged  ones,  devour  every  leaf  within 
reach,  while  the  shepherds  and  owners  set  fires 
with  the  intention  of  making  a  blade  of  grass 
grow  in  the  place  of  every  tree,  but  with  the  re- 
sult of  killing  both  the  grass  and  the  trees. 

In  the  million  acre  Black  Hills  Reserve  of 
South  Dakota,  the  easternmost  of  the  great  forest 
reserves,  made  for  the  sake  of  the  farmers  and 
miners,  there  are  delightful,  reviving  sauntering- 
grounds  in  open  parks  of  yellow  pine,  planted 
well  apart,  allowing  plenty  of  sunshine  to  warm 
the  ground.  This  tree  is  one  of  the  most  variable 
and  most  widely  distributed  of  American  pines. 
It  grows  sturdily  on  all  kinds  of  soil  and  rocks, 
and,  protected  by  a  mail  of  thick  bark,  defies 
frost  and  fire  and  disease  alike,  daring  every  dan- 
ger in  firm,  calm  beauty  and  strength.  It  occurs 
here  mostly  on  the  outer  hills  and  slopes  where 
no  other  tree  can  grow.  The  ground  beneath  it 


14  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

is  yellow  most  of  the  summer  with  showy  Wythia, 
arnica,  applopappus,  solidago,  and  other  sun-lov- 
ing plants,  which,  though  they  form  no  heavy 
entangling  growth,  yet  give  abundance  of  color 
and  make  all  the  woods  a  garden.  Beyond  the 
yellow  pine  woods  there  lies  a  world  of  rocks 
of  wildest  architecture,  broken,  splintery,  and 
spiky,  not  very  high,  but  the  strangest  in  form 
and  style  of  grouping  imaginable.  Countless 
towers  and  spires,  pinnacles  and  slender  domed 
columns,  are  crowded  together,  and  feathered 
with  sharp-pointed  Engelmann  spruces,  making 
curiously  mixed  forests,  —  half  trees,  half  rocks. 
Level  gardens  here  and  there  in  the  midst  of 
them  offer  charming  surprises,  and  so  do  the 
many  small  lakes  with  lilies  on  their  meadowy 
borders,  and  bluebells,  anemones,  daises,  castil- 
leias,  comandras,  etc.,  together  forming  land- 
scapes delightfully  novel,  and  made  still  wilder 
by  many  interesting  animals,  —  elk,  deer,  beavers, 
wolves,  squirrels,  and  birds.  Not  very  long  ago 
this  was  the  richest  of  all  the  red  man's  hunting- 
grounds  hereabout.  After  the  season's  buffalo 
hunts  were  over,  —  as  described  by  Parkman, 
who,  with  a  picturesque  cavalcade  of  Sioux  sav- 
ages, passed  through  these  famous  hills  in  1846, 
—  every  winter  deficiency  was  here  made  good, 
and  hunger  was  unknown  until,  in  spite  of  most 
determined,  fighting,  killing  opposition,  the 
white  gold-hunters  entered  the  fat  game  reserve 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  15 

and  spoiled  it.  The  Indians  are  dead  now,  and 
so  are  most  of  the  hardly  less  striking  free  trap- 
pers of  the  early  romantic  Eocky  Mountain 
times.  Arrows,  bullets,  scalping-knives,  need  no 
longer  be  feared ;  and  all  the  wilderness  is  peace- 
fully open. 

The  Rocky  Mountain  reserves  are  the  Teton, 
Yellowstone,  Lewis  and  Clark,  Bitter  Root,  Priest 
River  and  Flathead,  comprehending  more  than 
twelve  million  acres  of  mostly  unclaimed,  rough, 
forest-covered  mountains  in  which  the  great  rivers 
of  the  country  take  their  rise.  The  commonest 
tree  in  most  of  them  is  the  brave,  indomitable,  and 
altogether  admirable  Pinus  contorta,  widely  distri- 
buted in  all  kinds  of  climate  and  soil,  growing 
cheerily  in  frosty  Alaska,  breathing  the  damp 
salt  air  of  the  sea  as  well  as  the  dry  biting  blasts 
of  the  Arctic  interior,  and  making  itself  at  home 
on  the  most  dangerous  flame-swept  slopes  and 
ridges  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  immeasurable 
abundance  and  variety  of  forms.  Thousands  of 
acres  of  this  species  are  destroyed  by  running 
fires  nearly  every  summer,  but  a  new  growth 
springs  quickly  from  the  ashes.  It  is  generally 
small,  and  yields  few  sawlogs  of  commercial 
value,  but  is  of  incalculable  importance  to  the 
farmer  and  miner;  supplying  fencing,  mine 
timbers,  and  firewood,  holding  the  porous  soil 
on  steep  slopes,  preventing  landslips  and  ava- 
lanches, and  giving  kindly,  nourishing  shelter  to 


16  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

animals  and  the  widely  outspread  sources  of  the 
life-giving  rivers.  The  other  trees  are  mostly 
spruce,  mountain  pine,  cedar,  juniper,  larch, 
and  balsam  fir ;  some  of  them,  especially  on  the 
western  slopes  of  the  mountains,  attaining  grand 
size  and  furnishing  abundance  of  fine  timber. 

Perhaps  the  least  known  of  all  this  grand 
group  of  reserves  is  the  Bitter  Boot,  of  more 
than  four  million  acres.  It  is  the  wildest,  shag- 
giest block  of  forest  wildness  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  full  of  happy,  healthy,  storm-loving 
trees,  full  of  streams  that  dance  and  sing  in 
glorious  array,  and  full  of  Nature's  animals,  — 
elk,  deer,  wild  sheep,  bears,  cats,  and  innumer- 
able smaller  people. 

In  calm  Indian  summer,  when  the  heavy  winds 
are  hushed,  the  vast  forests  covering  hill  and 
dale,  rising  and  falling  over  the  rough  topo- 
graphy and  vanishing  in  the  distance,  seem 
lifeless.  No  moving  thing  is  seen  as  we  climb 
the  peaks,  and  only  the  low,  mellow  murmur  of 
falling  water  is  heard,  which  seems  to  thicken 
the  silence.  Nevertheless,  how  many  hearts  with 
warm  red  blood  in  them  are  beating  under  cover 
of  the  woods,  and  how  many  teeth  and  eyes  are 
shining !  A  multitude  of  animal  people,  inti- 
mately related  to  us,  but  of  whose  lives  we  know 
almost  nothing,  are  as  busy  about  their  own 
affairs  as  we  are  about  ours :  beavers  are  build- 
ing and  mending  dams  and  huts  for  winter,  and 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  17 

Storing  them  with  food;  bears  are  studying 
winter  quarters  as  they  stand  thoughtful  in  open 
spaces,  while  the  gentle  breeze  ruffles  the  long 
hair  on  their  backs ;  elk  and  deer,  assembling 
on  the  heights,  are  considering  cold  pastures 
where  they  will  be  farthest  away  from  the 
wolves  ;  squirrels  and  marmots  are  busily  laying 
up  provisions  and  lining  their  nests  against  com- 
ing frost  and  snow  foreseen ;  and  countless 
thousands  of  birds  are  forming  parties  and  gath- 
ering their  young  about  them  for  flight  to  the 
southlands ;  while  butterflies  and  bees,  appar- 
ently with  no  thought  of  hard  times  to  come, 
are  hovering  above  the  late-blooming  goldenrods, 
and,  with  countless  other  insect  folk,  are  danc- 
ing and  humming  right  merrily  in  the  sunbeams 
and  shaking  all  the  air  into  music. 

Wander  here  a  whole  summer,  if  you  can. 
Thousands  of  God's  wild  blessings  will  search 
you  and  soak  you  as  if  you  were  a  sponge,  and 
the  big  days  will  go  by  uncounted.  If  you 
are  business-tangled,  and  so  burdened  with  duty 
that  only  weeks  can  be  got  out  of  the  heavy- 
laden  year,  then  go  to  the  Flathead  Reserve ; 
for  it  is  easily  and  quickly  reached  by  the  Great 
Northern  Railroad.  Get  off  the  track  at  Belton 
Station,  and  in  a  few  minutes  you  will  find  your- 
self in  the  midst  of  what  you  are  sure  to  say  is 
the  best  care-killing  scenery  on  the  continent,  — 
beautiful  lakes  derived  straight  from  glaciers, 


18  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

lofty  mountains  steeped  in  lovely  nemophila-blue 
skies  and  clad  with  forests  and  glaciers,  mossy, 
ferny  waterfalls  in  their  hollows,  nameless  and 
numberless,  and  meadowy  gardens  abounding  in 
the  best  of  everything.  When  you  are  calm 
enough  for  discriminating  observation,  you  will 
find  the  king  of  the  larches,  one  of  the  best  of 
the  Western  giants,  beautiful,  picturesque,  and 
regal  in  port,  easily  the  grandest  of  all  the 
larches  in  the  world.  It  grows  to  a  height  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred  feet,  with 
a  diameter  at  the  ground  of  five  to  eight  feet, 
throwing  out  its  branches  into  the  light  as  no 
other  tree  does.  To  those  who  before  have  seen 
only  the  European  larch  or  the  Lyall  species  of 
the  eastern  Rocky  Mountains,  or  the  little  tama- 
rack or  hackmatack  of  the  Eastern  States  and 
Canada,  this  Western  king  must  be  a  revelation. 

Associated  with  this  grand  tree  in  the  making 
of  the  Flathead  forests  is  the  large  and  beautiful 
mountain  pine,  or  Western  white  pine  (Pinus 
monticola),  the  invincible  contorta  or  lodge-pole 
pine,  and  spruce  and  cedar.  The  forest  floor  is 
covered  with  the  richest  beds  of  Linnsea  borealis 
I  ever  saw,  thick  fragrant  carpets,  enriched  with 
shining  mosses  here  and  there,  and  with  Clin- 
tonia,  pyrola,  moneses,  and  vaccinium,  weaving 
hundred-mile  beds  of  bloom  that  would  have 
made  blessed  old  Linnseus  weep  for  joy. 

Lake  McDonald,  full  of  brisk  trout,  is  in  the 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  19 

heart  of  this  forest,  and  Avalanche  Lake  is  ten 
miles  above  McDonald,  at  the  feet  of  a  group  of 
glacier-laden  mountains.  Give  a  month  at  least 
to  this  precious  reserve.  The  time  will  not  be 
taken  from  the  sum  of  your  life.  Instead  of 
shortening,  it  will  indefinitely  lengthen  it  and 
make  you  truly  immortal.  Nevermore  will  time 
seem  short  or  long,  and  cares  will  never  again 
fall  heavily  on  you,  but  gently  and  kindly  as 
gifts  from  heaven. 

The  vast  Pacific  Coast  reserves  in  Washington 
and  Oregon  —  the  Cascade,  Washington,  Mount 
Kainier,  Olympic,  Bull  Kun,  and  Ashland,  named 
in  order  of  size  — include  more  than  12,500,000 
acres  of  magnificent  forests  of  beautiful  and 
gigantic  trees.  They  extend  over  the  wild,  un- 
explored Olympic  Mountains  and  both  flanks  of 
the  Cascade  Kange,  the  wet  and  the  dry.  On 
the  east  side  of  the  Cascades  the  woods  are  sunny 
and  open,  and  contain  principally  yellow  pine,  of 
moderate  size,  but  of  great  value  as  a  cover  for 
the  irrigating  streams  that  flow  into  the  dry  in- 
terior, where  agriculture  on  a  grand  scale  is  being 
carried  on.  Along  the  moist,  balmy,  foggy, 
west  flank  of  the  mountains,  facing  the  sea,  the 
woods  reach  their  highest  development,  and,  ex- 
cepting the  California  redwoods,  are  the  heaviest 
on  the  continent.  They  are  made  up  mostly  of 
the  Douglas  spruce  (Pseudotsuga  taxifolia),  with 
the  giant  arbor  vitse,  or  cedar,  and  several  species 


20  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  fir  and  hemlock  in  varying  abundance,  form- 
ing a  forest  kingdom  unlike  any  other,  in  which 
limb  meets  limb,  touching  and  overlapping  in 
bright,  lively,  triumphant  exuberance,  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  three  hundred,  and  even  four 
hundred  feet  above  the  shady,  mossy  ground. 
Over  all  the  other  species  the  Douglas  spruce 
reigns  supreme.  It  is  not  only  a  large  tree, 
the  tallest  in  America  next  to  the  redwood, 
but  a  very  beautiful  one,  with  bright  green 
drooping  foliage,  handsome  pendent  cones,  and 
a  shaft  exquisitely  straight  and  round  and  reg- 
ular. Forming  extensive  forests  by  itself  in 
many  places,  it  lifts  its  spiry  tops  into  the  sky 
close  together  with  as  even  a  growth  as  a  well- 
tilled  field  of  grain.  No  ground  has  been  bet- 
ter tilled  for  wheat  than  these  Cascade  Moun- 
tains for  trees  :  they  were  ploughed  by  mighty 
glaciers,  and  harrowed  and  mellowed  and  out- 
spread by  the  broad  streams  that  flowed  from 
the  ice-ploughs  as  they  were  withdrawn  at  the 
close  of  the  glacial  period. 

In  proportion  to  its  weight  when  dry,  Douglas 
spruce  timber  is  perhaps  stronger  than  that  of 
any  other  large  conifer  in  the  country,  and  being 
tough,  durable,  and  elastic,  it  is  admirably  suited 
for  ship-building,  piles,  and  heavy  timbers  in 
general ;  but  its  hardness  and  liability  to  warp 
when  it  is  cut  into  boards  render  it  unfit  for  fine 
work.  In  the  lumber  markets  of  California  it  is 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  21 

called  "  Oregon  pine."  When  lumbering  is 
going  on  in  the  best  Douglas  woods,  especially 
about  Puget  Sound,  many  of  the  long,  slender 
boles  are  saved  for  spars;  and  so  superior  is 
their  quality  that  they  are  called  for  in  almost 
every  shipyard  in  the  world,  and  it  is  interesting 
to  follow  their  fortunes.  FeUed  and  peeled  and 
dragged  to  tide-water,  they  are  raised  again  as 
yards  and  masts  for  ships,  given  iron  roots  and 
canvas  foliage,  decorated  with  flags,  and  sent  to 
sea,  where  in  glad  motion  they  go  cheerily  over 
the  ocean  prairie  in  every  latitude  and  longitude, 
singing  and  bowing  responsive  to  the  same  winds 
that  waved  them  when  they  were  in  the  woods. 
After  standing  in  one  place  for  centuries  they 
thus  go  round  the  world  like  tourists,  meeting 
many  a  friend  from  the  old  home  forest ;  some 
traveling  like  themselves,  some  standing  head 
downward  in  muddy  harbors,  holding  up  the 
platforms  of  wharves,  and  others  doing  all  kinds 
of  hard  timber  work,  showy  or  hidden. 

This  wonderful  tree  also  grows  far  northward 
in  British  Columbia,  and  southward  along  the 
coast  and  middle  regions  of  Oregon  and  Califor- 
nia ;  flourishing  with  the  redwood  wherever  it 
can  find  an  opening,  and  with  the  sugar  pine, 
yellow  pine,  and  libocedrus  in  the  Sierra.  It  ex- 
tends into  the  San  Gabriel,  San  Bernardino,  and 
San  Jacinto  Mountains  of  southern  California. 
It  also  grows  well  on  the  Wasatch  Mountains, 


22  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

where  it  is  called  "  red  pine/'  and  on  many  parts 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  short  interior  ranges 
of  the  Great  Basin.  But  though  thus  widely 
distributed,  only  in  Oregon,  Washington,  and 
some  parts  of  British  Columbia  does  it  reach  per- 
fect development. 

To  one  who  looks  from  some  high  standpoint 
over  its  vast  breadth,  the  forest  on  the  west  side 
of  the  Cascades  seems  all  one  dim,  dark,  monoto- 
nous field,  broken  only  by  the  white  volcanic 
cones  along  the  summit  of  the  range.  Back  in 
the  untrodden  wilderness  a  deep  furred  carpet  of 
brown  and  yellow  mosses  covers  the  ground  like 
a  garment,  pressing  about  the  feet  of  the  trees, 
and  rising  in  rich  bosses  softly  and  kindly  over 
every  rock  and  mouldering  trunk,  leaving  no  spot 
uncared  for ;  and  dotting  small  prairies,  and 
fringing  the  meadows  and  the  banks  of  streams 
not  seen  in  general  views,  we  find,  besides  the 
great  conifers,  a  considerable  number  of  hard- 
wood trees,  —  oak,  ash,  maple,  alder,  wild  apple, 
cherry,  arbutus,  Nuttall's  flowering  dogwood, 
and  in  some  places  chestnut.  In  a  few  favored 
spots  the  broad-leaved  maple  grows  to  a  height 
of  a  hundred  feet  in  forests  by  itself,  sending  out 
large  limbs  in  magnificent  interlacing  arches  cov- 
ered with  mosses  and  ferns,  thus  forming  lofty 
sky-gardens,  and  rendering  the  underwoods  de- 
lightfully cool.  No  finer  forest  ceiling  is  to  be 
found  than  these  maple  arches,  while  the  floor, 


WILD  PAEKS  OF  THE  WEST  23 

ornamented  with  tall  ferns  and  rubus  vines,  and 
cast  into  hillocks  by  the  bulging,  moss-covered 
roots  of  the  trees,  matches  it  well. 

Passing  from  beneath  the  heavy  shadows  of 
the  woods,  almost  anywhere  one  steps  into  lovely 
gardens  of  lilies,  orchids,  heathworts,  and  wild 
roses.  Along  the  lower  slopes,  especially  in  Ore- 
gon, where  the  woods  are  less  dense,  there  are 
miles  of  rhododendron,  making  glorious  masses 
of  purple  in  the  spring,  while  all  about  the 
streams  and  the  lakes  and  the  beaver  meadows 
there  is  a  rich  tangle  of  hazel,  plum,  cherry, 
crab-apple,  cornel,  gaultheria,  and  rubus,  with 
myriads  of  flowers  and  abundance  of  other  more 
delicate  bloomers,  such  as  erythronium,  brodisea, 
fritillaria,  calochortus,  Clintonia,  and  the  lovely 
hider  of  the  north,  Calypso.  Beside  all  these 
bloomers  there  are  wonderful  ferneries  about  the 
many  misty  waterfalls,  some  of  the  fronds  ten 
feet  high,  others  the  most  delicate  of  their  tribe, 
the  maidenhair  fringing  the  rocks  within  reach  of 
the  lightest  dust  of  the  spray,  while  the  shading 
trees  on  the  cliffs  above  them,  leaning  over,  look 
like  eager  listeners  anxious  to  catch  every  tone 
of  the  restless  waters.  In  the  autumn  berries  of 
every  color  and  flavor  abound,  enough  for  birds, 
bears,  and  everybody,  particularly  about  the 
stream-sides  and  meadows  where  sunshine  reaches 
the  ground  :  huckleberries,  red,  blue,  and  black, 
some  growing  close  to  the  ground  others  on 


24  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

bushes  ten  feet  high ;  gaultheria  berries,  called 
"  sal-al "  by  the  Indians  ;  salmon  berries,  an  inch 
in  diameter,  growing  in  dense  prickly  tangles,  the 
flowers,  like  wild  roses,  still  more  beautiful  than 
the  fruit;  raspberries,  gooseberries,  currants, 
blackberries,  and  strawberries.  The  underbrush 
and  meadow  fringes  are  in  great  part  made  up  of 
these  berry  bushes  and  vines ;  but  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods  there  is  not  much  underbrush  of 
any  kind,  —  only  a  thin  growth  of  rubus,  huckle- 
berry, and  vine-maple. 

Notwithstanding  the  outcry  against  the  reser- 
vations last  winter  in  Washington,  that  un- 
counted farms,  towns,  and  villages  were  included 
in  them,  and  that  all  business  was  threatened  or 
blocked,  nearly  all  the  mountains  in  which  the 
reserves  lie  are  still  covered  with  virgin  forests. 
Though  lumbering  has  long  been  carried  on  with 
tremendous  energy  along  their  boundaries,  and 
home-seekers  have  explored  the  woods  for  open- 
ings available  for  farms,  however  small,  one  may 
wander  in  the  heart  of  the  reserves  for  weeks 
without  meeting  a  human  being,  Indian  or  white 
man,  or  any  conspicuous  trace  of  one.  Indians 
used  to  ascend  the  main  streams  on  their  way  to 
the  mountains  for  wild  goats,  whose  wool  fur- 
nished them  clothing.  But  with  food  in  abun- 
dance on  the  coast  there  was  little  to  draw  them 
into  the  woods,  and  the  monuments  they  have 
left  there  are  scarcely  more  conspicuous  than 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  25 

those  of  birds  and  squirrels ;  far  less  so  than 
those  of  the  beavers,  which  have  dammed  streams 
and  made  clearings  that  will  endure  for  centu- 
ries. Nor  is  there  much  in  these  woods  to  at- 
tract cattle-keepers.  Some  of  the  first  settlers 
made  farms  on  the  small  bits  of  prairie  and  in 
the  comparatively  open  Cowlitz  and  Chehalis 
valleys  of  Washington;  but  before  the  gold 
period  most  of  the  immigrants  from  the  Eastern 
States  settled  in  the  fertile  and  open  Willamette 
Valley  of  Oregon.  Even  now,  when  the  search 
for  tillable  land  is  so  keen,  excepting  the  bottom- 
lands of  the  rivers  around  Puget  Sound,  there 
are  few  cleared  spots  in  all  western  Washington. 
On  every  meadow  or  opening  of  any  sort  some 
one  will  be  found  keeping  cattle,  raising  hops, 
or  cultivating  patches  of  grain,  but  these  spots 
are  few  and  far  between.  All  the  larger  spaces 
were  taken  long  ago ;  therefore  most  of  the 
newcomers  build  their  cabins  where  the  beavers 
built  theirs.  They  keep  a  few  cows,  laboriously 
widen  their  little  meadow  openings  by  hacking, 
girdling,  and  burning  the  rim  of  the  close-press- 
ing forest,  and  scratch  and  plant  among  the  huge 
blackened  logs  and  stumps,  girdling  and  killing 
themselves  in  killing  the  trees. 

Most  of  the  farm  lands  of  Washington  and 
Oregon,  excepting  the  valleys  of  the  Willamette 
and  Rogue  rivers,  lie  on  the  east  side  of  the 
mountains.  The  forests  on  the  eastern  slopes 


26  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  the  Cascades  fail  altogether  ere  the  foot  of 
the  range  is  reached,  stayed  by  drought  as  sud- 
denly as  on  the  west  side  they  are  stopped  by 
the  sea ;  showing  strikingly  how  dependent  are 
these  forest  giants  on  the  generous  rains  and 
fogs  so  often  complained  of  in  the  coast  climate. 
The  lower  portions  of  the  reserves  are  solemnly 
soaked  and  poulticed  in  rain  and  fog  during  the 
winter  months,  and  there  is  a  sad  dearth  of  sun- 
shine, but  with  a  little  knowledge  of  woodcraft 
any  one  may  enjoy  an  excursion  into  these  woods 
even  in  the  rainy  season.  The  big,  gray  days 
are  exhilarating,  and  the  colors  of  leaf  and  branch 
and  mossy  bole  are  then  at  their  best.  The 
mighty  trees  getting  their  food  are  seen  to  be 
wide-awake,  every  needle  thrilling  in  the  wel- 
come nourishing  storms,  chanting  and  bowing 
low  in  glorious  harmony,  while  every  raindrop 
and  snowflake  is  seen  as  a  beneficent  messenger 
from  the  sky.  The  snow  that  falls  on  the  lower 
woods  is  mostly  soft,  coming  through  the  trees 
in  downy  tufts,  loading  their  branches,  and  bend- 
ing them  down  against  the  trunks  until  they 
look  like  arrows,  while  a  strange  muffled  silence 
prevails,  making  everything  impressively  solemn. 
But  these  lowland  snowstorms  and  their  effects 
quickly  vanish.  The  snow  melts  in  a  day  or 
two,  sometimes  in  a  few  hours,  the  bent  branches 
spring  up  again,  and  all  the  forest  work  is  left 
to  the  fog  and  the  rain.  At  the  same  time,  dry 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  27 

snow  is  falling  on  the  upper  forests  and  moun- 
tain tops.  Day  after  day,  often  for  weeks,  the 
big  clouds  give  their  flowers  without  ceasing,  as 
if  knowing  how  important  is  the  work  they  have 
to  do.  The  glinting,  swirling  swarms  thicken 
the  blast,  and  the  trees  and  rocks  are  covered 
to  a  depth  of  ten  to  twenty  feet.  Then  the 
mountaineer,  snug  in  a  grove  with  bread  and 
fire,  has  nothing  to  do  but  gaze  and  listen  and 
enjoy.  Ever  and  anon  the  deep,  low  roar  of  the 
storm  is  broken  by  the  booming  of  avalanches, 
as  the  snow  slips  from  the  overladen  heights  and 
rushes  down  the  long  white  slopes  to  fill  the 
fountain  hollows.  All  the  smaller  streams  are 
hushed  and  buried,  and  the  young  groves  of 
spruce  and  fir  near  the  edge  of  the  timber-line 
are  gently  bowed  to  the  ground  and  put  to  sleep, 
not  again  to  see  the  light  of  day  or  stir  branch 
or  leaf  until  the  spring. 

These  grand  reservations  should  draw  thou- 
sands of  admiring  visitors  at  least  in  summer,  yet 
they  are  neglected  as  if  of  no  account,  and  spoil- 
ers are  allowed  to  ruin  them  as  fast  as  they  like.1 
A  few  peeled  spars  cut  here  were  set  up  in  Lon- 
don, Philadelphia,  and  Chicago,  where  they 

1  The  outlook  over  forest  affairs  is  now  encouraging.  Popular  in- 
terest, more  practical  than  sentimental  in  whatever  touches  the  welfare 
of  the  country's  forests,  is  growing  rapidly,  and  a  hopeful  begin- 
ning has  been  made  by  the  Government  in  real  protection  for  the  res- 
ervations as  well  as  for  the  parks.  From  July  1,  1900,  there  have 
been  9  superintendents,  39  supervisors,  and  from  330  to  445  rangers  of 
reservations. 


28  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

excited  wondering  attention ;  but  the  countless 
hosts  of  living  trees  rejoicing  at  home  on  the 
mountains  are  scarce  considered  at  all.  Most 
travelers  here  are  content  with  what  they  can  see 
from  car  windows  or  the  verandas  of  hotels,  and 
in  going  from  place  to  place  cling  to  their  pre- 
cious trains  and  stages  like  wrecked  sailors  to 
rafts.  When  an  excursion  into  the  woods  is 
proposed,  all  sorts  of  dangers  are  imagined, — 
snakes,  bears,  Indians.  Yet  it  is  far  safer  to 
wander  in  God's  woods  than  to  travel  on  black 
highways  or  to  stay  at  home.  The  snake  danger 
is  so  slight  it  is  hardly  worth  mentioning.  Bears 
are  a  peaceable  people,  and  mind  their  own  busi- 
ness, instead  of  going  about  like  the  devil  seeking 
whom  they  may  devour.  Poor  fellows,  they  have 
been  poisoned,  trapped,  and  shot  at  until  they 
have  lost  confidence  in  brother  man,  and  it  is  not 
now  easy  to  make  their  acquaintance.  As  to 
Indians,  most  of  them  are  dead  or  civilized  into 
useless  innocence.  No  American  wilderness  that 
I  know  of  is  so  dangerous  as  a  city  home  "  with 
all  the  modern  improvements."  One  should  go  to 
the  woods  for  safety,  if  for  nothing  else.  Lewis 
and  Clark,  in  their  famous  trip  across  the  conti- 
nent in  1804-1805,  did  not  lose  a  single  man  by 
Indians  or  animals,  though  all  the  West  was  then 
wild.  Captain  Clark  was  bitten  on  the  hand  as 
he  lay  asleep.  That  was  one  bite  among  more 
than  a  hundred  men  while  traveling  nine  thou- 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  29 

sand  miles.  Loggers  are  far  more  likely  to  be 
met  than  Indians  or  bears  in  the  reserves  or  about 
their  boundaries,  brown  weather-tanned  men  with 
faces  furrowed  like  bark,  tired-looking,  moving 
slowly,  swaying  like  the  trees  they  chop.  A 
little  of  everything  in  the  woods  is  fastened  to 
their  clothing,  rosiny  and  smeared  with  balsam, 
and  rubbed  into  it,  so  that  their  scanty  outer  gar- 
ments grow  thicker  with  use  and  never  wear  out. 
Many  a  forest  giant  have  these  old  woodmen 
felled,  but,  round-shouldered  and  stooping,  they 
too  are  leaning  over  and  tottering  to  their  fall. 
Others,  however,  stand  ready  to  take  their  places, 
stout  young  fellows,  erect  as  saplings ;  and 
always  the  foes  of  trees  outnumber  their  friends. 
Far  up  the  white  peaks  one  can  hardly  fail  to 
meet  the  wild  goat,  or  American  chamois,  — an 
admirable  mountaineer,  familiar  with  woods  and 
glaciers  as  well  as  rocks,  —  and  in  leafy  thickets 
deer  will  be  found ;  while  gliding  about  unseen 
there  are  many  sleek  furred  animals  enjoying 
their  beautiful  lives,  and  birds  also,  notwithstand- 
ing few  are  noticed  in  hasty  walks.  The  ousel 
sweetens  the  glens  and  gorges  where  the  streams 
flow  fastest,  and  every  grove  has  its  singers,  how- 
ever silent  it  seems,  —  thrushes,  linnets,  warblers ; 
humming-birds  glint  about  the  fringing  bloom  of 
the  meadows  and  peaks,  and  the  lakes  are  stirred 
into  lively  pictures  by  water-fowl. 

The  Mount  Eainier  Forest  Reserve  should  be 


30  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

made  a  national  park  and  guarded  while  yet  its 
bloom  is  on ; 1  for  if  in  the  making  of  the  West 
Nature  had  what  we  call  parks  in  mind,  —  places 
for  rest,  inspiration,  and  prayers,  —  this  Eainier 
region  must  surely  be  one  of  them.  In  the 
centre  of  it  there  is  a  lonely  mountain  capped 
with  ice ;  from  the  ice-cap  glaciers  radiate  in 
every  direction,  and  young  rivers  from  the  gla- 
ciers ;  while  its  flanks,  sweeping  down  in  beauti- 
ful curves,  are  clad  with  forests  and  gardens,  and 
filled  with  birds  and  animals.  Specimens  of  the 
best  of  Nature's  treasures  have  been  lovingly 
gathered  here  and  arranged  in  simple  symmetrical 
beauty  within  regular  bounds. 

Of  all  the  fire-mountains  which,  like  beacons, 
once  blazed  along  the  Pacific  Coast,  Mount 
Rainier  is  the  noblest  in  form,  has  the  most  in- 
teresting forest  cover,  and,  with  perhaps  the  ex- 
ception of  Shasta,  is  the  highest  and  most 
flowery.  Its  massive  white  dome  rises  out  of  its 
forests,  like  a  world  by  itself,  to  a  height  of  four- 
teen thousand  to  fifteen  thousand  feet.  The  for- 
ests reach  to  a  height  of  a  little  over  six  thousand 
feet,  and  above  the  forests  there  is  a  zone  of  the 
loveliest  flowers,  fifty  miles  in  circuit  and  nearly 

1  This  was  done  shortly  after  the  above  was  written.  "  One  of  the 
most  important  measures  taken  during  the  past  year  in  connection 
with  forest  reservations  was  the  action  of  Congress  in  withdrawing 
from  the  Mount  Rainier  Forest  Reserve  a  portion  of  the  region  imme- 
diately surrounding  Mount  Rainier  ?nd  setting  it  apart  as  a  national 
park."  (Report  of  Commissioner  of  General  Land  Office,  for  the  year 
ended  June,  1899.)  But  the  park  as  it  now  stands  is  far  too  small. 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE~WEST  31 


two  miles  wide,  so  closely  planted  and  luxuriant 
that  it  seems  as  if  Nature,  glad  to  make  an  open 
space  between  woods  so  dense  and  ice  so  deep, 
were  economizing  the  precious  ground,  and  try- 
ing to  see  how  many  of  her  darlings  she  can  get 
together  in  one  mountain  wreath,  —  daisies, 
anemones,  geraniums,  columbines,  erythroniums, 
larkspurs,  etc.,  among  which  we  wade  knee-deep 
and  waist-deep,  the  bright  corollas  in  myriads 
touching  petal  to  petal.  Picturesque  detached 
groups  of  the  spiry  Abies  lasiocarpa  stand  like 
islands  along  the  lower  margin  of  the  garden 
zone,  while  on  the  upper  margin  there  are  exten- 
sive beds  of  bryanthus,  Cassiope,  Kalmia,and  other 
heath  worts,  and  higher  still  saxifrages  and  drabas, 
more  and  more  lowly,  reach  up  to  the  edge  of  the 
ice.  Altogether  this  is  the  richest  subalpine 
garden  I  ever  found,  a  perfect  floral  elysium. 
The  icy  dome  needs  none  of  man's  care,  but  un- 
less the  reserve  is  guarded  the  flower  bloom  will 
soon  be  killed,  and  nothing  of  the  forests  will  be 
left  but  black  stump  monuments. 

The  Sierra  of  California  is  the  most  openly 
beautiful  and  useful  of  all  the  forest  reserves, 
and  the  largest  excepting  the  Cascade  Reserve  of 
Oregon  and  the  Bitter  Root  of  Montana  and 
Idaho.  It  embraces  over  four  million  acres  of 
the  grandest  scenery  and  grandest  trees  on  the 
continent,  and  its  forests  are  planted  just  where 
they  do  the  most  good,  not  only  for  beauty,  but 


32  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

for  farming  in  the  great  San  Joaquin  Valley  be- 
neath them.  It  extends  southward  from  the 
Yosemite  National  Park  to  the  end  of  the  range, 
a  distance  of  nearly  two  hundred  miles.  No 
other  coniferous  forest  in  the  world  contains  so 
many  species  or  so  many  large  and  beautiful 
trees,  —  Sequoia  gigantea,  king  of  conifers,  "  the 
noblest  of  a  noble  race,"  as  Sir  Joseph  Hooker 
well  says;  the  sugar  pine,  king  of  all  the 
world's  pines,  living  or  extinct ;  the  yellow  pine, 
next  in  rank,  which  here  reaches  most  perfect 
development,  forming  *  noble  towers  of  verdure 
two  hundred  feet  high;  the  mountain  pine, 
which  braves  the  coldest  blasts  far  up  the  moun- 
tains on  grim,  rocky  slopes;  and  five  others, 
flourishing  each  in  its  place,  making  eight  species 
of  pine  in  one  forest,  which  is  still  further  en- 
riched by  the  great  Douglas  spruce,  libocedrus, 
two  species  of  silver  fir,  large  trees  and  exquisitely 
beautiful,  the  Paton  hemlock,  the  most  graceful 
of  evergreens,  the  curious  tumion,  oaks  of  many 
species,  maples,  alders,  poplars,  and  flowering 
dogwood,  all  fringed  with  flowery  underbrush, 
manzanita,  ceanothus,  wild  rose,  cherry,  chestnut, 
and  rhododendron.  Wandering  at  random 
through  these  friendly,  approachable  woods,  one 
comes  here  and  there  to  the  loveliest  lily  gardens, 
some  of  the  lilies  ten  feet  high,  and  the  smooth- 
est gentian  meadows,  and  Yosemite  valleys  known 
only  to  mountaineers.  Once  I  spent  a  night  by 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  33 

a  camp-fire  on  Mount  Shasta  with  Asa  Gray  and 
Sir  Joseph  Hooker,  and,  knowing  that  they  were 
acquainted  with  all  the  great  forests  of  the 
world,  I  asked  whether  they  knew  any  conifer- 
ous forest  that  rivaled  that  of  the  Sierra.  They 
unhesitatingly  said :  "  No.  In  the  beauty  and 
grandeur  of  individual  trees,  and  in  number  and 
variety  of  species,  the  Sierra  forests  surpass  all 
others." 

This  Sierra  Eeserve,  proclaimed  by  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  in  September,  1893,  is 
worth  the  most  thoughtful  care  of  the  govern- 
ment for  its  own  sake,  without  considering  its 
value  as  the  fountain  of  the  rivers  on  which  the 
fertility  of  the  great  San  Joaquin  Valley  de- 
pends. Yet  it  gets  no  care  at  all.  In  the  fog 
of  tariff,  silver,  and  annexation  politics  it  is  left 
wholly  unguarded,  though  the  management  of 
the  adjacent  national  parks  by  a  few  soldiers 
shows  how  well  and  how  easily  it  can  be  pre- 
served. In  the  meantime,  lumbermen  are  al- 
lowed to  spoil  it  at  their  will,  and  sheep  in 
uncountable  ravenous  hordes  to  trample  it  and 
devour  every  green  leaf  within  reach  ;  while  the 
shepherds,  like  destroying  angels,  set  innumer- 
able fires,  which  burn  not  only  the  undergrowth 
of  seedlings  on  which  the  permanence  of  the 
forest  depends,  but  countless  thousands  of  the 
venerable  giants.  If  every  citizen  could  take 
one  walk  through  this  reserve,  there  would  be 


34  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

no  more  trouble  about  its  care ;  for  only  in 
darkness  does  vandalism  flourish.1 

The  reserves  of  southern  California,  —  the 
San  Gabriel,  San  Bernardino,  San  Jacinto,  and 
Trabuco,  —  though  not  large,  only  about  two 
million  acres  together,  are  perhaps  the  best  ap- 
preciated. Their  slopes  are  covered  with  a 
close,  almost  impenetrable  growth  of  flowery 
bushes,  beginning  on  the  sides  of  the  fertile 
coast  valleys  and  the  dry  interior  plains.  Their 
higher  ridges,  however,  and  mountains  are  open, 
and  fairly  well  forested  with  sugar  pine,  yellow 
pine,  Douglas  spruce,  libocedrus,  and  white  fir. 
As  timber  fountains  they  amount  to  little,  but  as 
bird  and  bee  pastures,  cover  for  the  precious 
streams  that  irrigate  the  lowlands,  and  quickly 
available  retreats  from  dust  and  heat  and  care, 
their  value  is  incalculable.  Good  roads  have 
been  graded  into  them,  by  which  in  a  few  hours 
lowlanders  can  get  well  up  into  the  sky  and  find 
refuge  in  hospitable  camps  and  club-houses, 
where,  while  breathing  reviving  ozone,  they  may 
absorb  the  beauty  about  them,  and  look  comfort- 
ably down  on  the  busy  towns  and  the  most 
beautiful  orange  groves  ever  planted  since  gar- 
dening began. 

The  Grand  Canon  Reserve  of  Arizona,  of 
nearly  two  million  acres,  or  the  most  interesting 
part  of  it,  as  well  as  the  Rainier  region,  should 

1  See  note,  p.  27. 


WILD  PARKS  OF  THE  WEST  35 

be  made  into  a  national  park,  on  account  of  their 
supreme  grandeur  and  beauty.  Setting  out 
from  Flagstaff,  a  station  on  the  Atchison,  To- 
peka,  and  Santa  Fe  Railroad,  on  the  way  to  the 
canon  you  pass  through  beautiful  forests  of 
yellow  pine,  —  like  those  of  the  Black  Hills,  but 
more  extensive,  —  and  curious  dwarf  forests  of 
nut  pine  and  juniper,  the  spaces  between  the 
miniature  trees  planted  with  many  interesting 
species  of  eriogonum,  yucca,  and  cactus.  After 
riding  or  walking  seventy-five  miles  through 
these  pleasure-grounds,  the  San  Francisco  and 
other  mountains,  abounding  in  flowery  parklike 
openings  and  smooth  shallow  valleys  with  long 
vistas  which  in  fineness  of  finish  and  arrange- 
ment suggest  the  work  of  a  consummate  land- 
scape artist,  watching  you  all  the  way,  you  come 
to  the  most  tremendous  canon  in  the  world.  It 
is  abruptly  countersunk  in  the  forest  plateau,  so 
that  you  see  nothing  of  it  until  you  are  suddenly 
stopped  on  its  brink,  with  its  immeasurable 
wealth  of  divinely  colored  and  sculptured  build- 
ings before  you  and  beneath  you.  No  matter 
how  far  you  have  wandered  hitherto,  or  how 
many  famous  gorges  and  valleys  you  have  seen, 
this  one,  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado,  will 
seem  as  novel  to  you,  as  unearthly  in  the  color 
and  grandeur  and  quantity  of  its  architecture,  as 
if  you  had  found  it  after  death,  on  some  other 
star ;  so  incomparably  lovely  and  grand  and 


36  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

supreme  is  it  above  all  the  other  canons  in  our 
fire-moulded,  earthquake-shaken,  rain-washed, 
wave-washed,  river  and  glacier  sculptured  world. 
It  is  about  six  thousand  feet  deep  where  you 
first  see  it,  and  from  rim  to  rim  ten  to  fifteen 
miles  wide.  Instead  of  being  dependent  for 
interest  upon  waterfalls,  depth,  wall  sculpture, 
and  beauty  of  parklike  floor,  like  most  other 
great  canons,  it  has  no  waterfalls  in  sight,  and 
no  appreciable  floor  spaces.  The  big  river  has 
just  room  enough  to  flow  and  roar  obscurely, 
here  and  there  groping  its  way  as  best  it  can, 
like  a  weary,  murmuring,  overladen  traveler  try- 
ing to  escape  from  the  tremendous,  bewildering 
labyrinthic  abyss,  while  its  roar  serves  only  to 
deepen  the  silence.  Instead  of  being  filled  with 
air,  the  vast  space  between  the  walls  is  crowded 
with  Nature's  grandest  buildings,  —  a  sublime 
city  of  them,  painted  in  every  color,  and  adorned 
with  richly  fretted  cornice  and  battlement  spire 
and  tower  in  endless  variety  of  style  and  archi- 
tecture. Every  architectural  invention  of  man 
has  been  anticipated,  and  far  more,  in  this 
grandest  of  God's  terrestrial  cities. 


CHAPTER  H 

THE    YELLOWSTONE    NATIONAL    PARK 

OF  the  four  national  parks  of  the  West,  the 
Yellowstone  is  far  the  largest.  It  is  a  big, 
wholesome  wilderness  on  the  broad  summit  of  the 
Eocky  Mountains,  favored  with  abundance  of 
rain  and  snow,  — -  a  place  of  fountains  where  the 
greatest  of  the  American  rivers  take  their  rise. 
The  central  portion  is  a  densely  forested  and 
comparatively  level  volcanic  plateau  with  an  aver- 
age elevation  of  about  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  surrounded  by  an  imposing  host  of  moun- 
tains belonging  to  the  subordinate  Gallatin,  Wind 
River,  Teton,  Absaroka,  and  snowy  ranges.  Un- 
numbered lakes  shine  in  it,  united  by  a  famous 
band  of  streams  that  rush  up  out  of  hot  lava  beds, 
or  fall  from  the  frosty  peaks  in  channels  rocky 
and  bare,  mossy  and  bosky,  to  the  main  rivers, 
singing  cheerily  on  through  every  difficulty,  cun- 
ningly dividing  and  finding  their  way  east  and 
west  to  the  two  far-off  seas. 

Glacier  meadows  and  beaver  meadows  are  out- 
spread with  charming  effect  along  the  banks  of 
the  streams,  parklike  expanses  in  the  woods,  and 


38  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

innumerable  small  gardens  in  rocky  recesses  of 
the  mountains,  some  of  them  containing  more 
petals  than  leaves,  while  the  whole  wilderness  is 
enlivened  with  happy  animals. 

Beside  the  treasures  common  to  most  mountain 
regions  that  are  wild  and  blessed  with  a  kind 
climate,  the  park  is  full  of  exciting  wonders. 
The  wildest  geysers  in  the  world,  in  bright,  tri- 
umphant bands,  are  dancing  and  singing  in  it 
amid  thousands  of  boiling  springs,  beautiful  and 
awful,  their  basins  arrayed  in  gorgeous  colors  like 
gigantic  flowers ;  and  hot  paint-pots,  mud  springs, 
mud  volcanoes,  mush  and  broth  caldrons  whose 
contents  are  of  every  color  and  consistency, 
plash  and  heave  and  roar  in  bewildering  abun- 
dance. In  the  adjacent  mountains,  beneath  the 
living  trees  the  edges  of  petrified  forests  are  ex- 
posed to  view,  like  specimens  on  the  shelves  of  a 
museum,  standing  on  ledges  tier  above  tier  where 
they  grew,  solemnly  silent  in  rigid  crystalline 
beauty  after  swaying  in  the  winds  thousands 
of  centuries  ago,  opening  marvelous  views  back 
into  the  years  and  climates  and  life  of  the  past. 
Here,  too,  are  hills  of  sparkling  crystals,  hills  of 
sulphur,  hills  of  glass,  hills  of  cinders  and  ashes, 
mountains  of  every  style  of  architecture,  icy  or 
forested,  mountains  covered  with  honey-bloom 
sweet  as  Hymettus,  mountains  boiled  soft  like 
potatoes  and  colored  like  a  sunset  sky.  A' 
that  and  a'  that,  and  twice  as  muckle  's  a'  that, 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        39 

Nature  has  on  show  in  the  Yellowstone  Park. 
Therefore  it  is  called  Wonderland,  and  thousands 
of  tourists  and  travelers  stream  into  it  every  sum- 
mer, and  wander  about  in  it  enchanted. 

Fortunately,  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  discov- 
ered it  was  dedicated  and  set  apart  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  people,  a  piece  of  legislation  that  shines 
benignly  amid  the  common  dust-and-ashes  history 
of  the  public  domain,  for  which  the  world  must 
thank  Professor  Hayden  above  all  others ;  for  he 
led  the  first  scientific  exploring  party  into  it,  de- 
scribed it,  and  with  admirable  enthusiasm  urged 
Congress  to  preserve  it*  As  delineated  in  the 
year  1872,  the  park  contained  about  3344  square 
miles.  On  March  30,  1891  it  was  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  enlarged  by  the  Yellowstone  Na- 
tional Park  Timber  Reserve,  and  in  December, 
1897,  by  the  Teton  Forest  Reserve ;  thus  nearly 
doubling  its  original  area,  and  extending  the 
southern  boundary  far  enough  to  take  in  the 
sublime  Teton  range  and  the  famous  pasture-lands 
of  the  big  Rocky  Mountain  game  animals.  The 
withdrawal  of  this  large  tract  from  the  public 
domain  did  no  harm  to  any  one ;  for  its  height, 
6000  to  over  13,000  feet  above  the  sea,  and  its 
thick  mantle  of  volcanic  rocks,  prevent  its  ever 
being  available  for  agriculture  or  mining,  while 
on  the  other  hand  its  geographical  position,  re- 
viving climate,  and  wonderful  scenery  combine 
to  make  it  a  grand  health,  pleasure,  and  study 


40  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

resort,  —  a  gathering-place  for  travelers  from 
all  the  world. 

The  national  parks  are  not  only  withdrawn 
from  sale  and  entry  like  the  forest  reservations, 
but  are  efficiently  managed  and  guarded  by  small 
troops  of  United  States  cavalry,  directed  by  the 
Secretary  of  the  Interior.  Under  this  care  the 
forests  are  flourishing,  protected  from  both  axe 
and  fire ;  and  so,  of  course,  are  the  shaggy  beds 
of  underbrush  and  the  herbaceous  vegetation. 
The  so-called  curiosities,  also,  are  preserved,  and 
the  furred  and  feathered  tribes,  many  of  which, 
in  danger  of  extinction  a  short  time  ago,  are 
now  increasing  in  numbers,  —  a  refreshing  thing 
to  see  amid  the  blind,  ruthless  destruction  that  is 
going  on  in  the  adjacent  regions.  In  pleasing 
contrast  to  the  noisy,  ever  changing  manage- 
ment, or  mismanagement,  of  blundering,  plun- 
dering, money-making  vote-sellers  who  receive 
their  places  from  boss  politicians  as  purchased 
goods,  the  soldiers  do  their  duty  so  quietly  that 
the  traveler  is  scarce  aware  of  their  presence. 

This  is  the  coolest  and  highest  of  the  parks. 
Frosts  occur  every  month  of  the  year.  Neverthe- 
less, the  tenderest  tourist  finds  it  warm  enough 
in  summer.  The  air  is  electric  and  full  of  ozone, 
healing,  reviving,  exhilarating,  kept  pure  by  frost 
and  fire,  while  the  scenery  is  wild  enough  to 
awaken  the  dead.  It  is  a  glorious  place  to  grow 
in  and  rest  in;  camping  on  the  shores  of  the 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        41 

lakes,  in  the  warm  openings  of  the  woods  golden 
with  sunflowers,  on  the  banks  of  the  streams,  by 
the  snowy  waterfalls,  beside  the  exciting  wonders 
or  away  from  them  in  the  scallops  of  the  moun- 
tain walls  sheltered  from  every  wind,  on  smooth 
silky  lawns  enameled  with  gentians,  up  in  the 
fountain  hollows  of  the  ancient  glaciers  between 
the  peaks,  where  cool  pools  and  brooks  and  gar- 
dens of  precious  plants  charmingly  embowered 
are  never  wanting,  and  good  rough  rocks  with 
every  variety  of  cliff  and  scaur  are  invitingly 
near  for  outlooks  and  exercise. 

From  these  lovely  dens  you  may  make  excur- 
sions whenever  you  like  into  the  middle  of  the 
park,  where  the  geysers  and  hot  springs  are  reek- 
ing and  spouting  in  their  beautiful  basins,  dis- 
playing an  exuberance  of  color  and  strange  mo- 
tion and  energy  admirably  calculated  to  surprise 
and  frighten,  charm  and  shake  up  the  least  sensi- 
tive out  of  apathy  into  newness  of  life. 

However  orderly  your  excursions  or  aimless, 
again  and  again  amid  the  calmest,  stillest  scenery 
you  will  be  brought  to  a  standstill  hushed  and 
awe-stricken  before  phenomena  wholly  new  to 
you.  Boiling  springs  and  huge  deep  pools  of 
purest  green  and  azure  water,  thousands  of  them, 
are  plashing  and  heaving  in  these  high,  cool 
mountains  as  if  a  fierce  furnace  fire  were  burning 
beneath  each  one  of  them ;  and  a  hundred  gey- 
sers, white  torrents  of  boiling  water  and  steam, 


42  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

like  inverted  waterfalls,  are  ever  and  anon  rush- 
ing up  out  of  the  hot,  black  underworld.  Some 
of  these  ponderous  geyser  columns  are  as  large  as 
sequoias, — five  to  sixty  feet  in  diameter,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred  feet  high, 
—  and  are  sustained  at  this  great  height  with 
tremendous  energy  for  a  few  minutes,  or  per- 
haps nearly  an  hour,  standing  rigid  and  erect, 
hissing,  throbbing,  booming,  as  if  thunderstorms 
were  raging  beneath  their  roots,  their  sides 
roughened  or  fluted  like  the  furrowed  boles  of 
trees,  their  tops  dissolving  in  feathery  branches, 
while  the  irised  spray,  like  misty  bloom  is  at  times 
blown  aside,  revealing  the  massive  shafts  shining 
against  a  background  of  pine-covered  hills. 
Some  of  them  lean  more  or  less,  as  if  storm-bent, 
and  instead  of  being  round  are  flat  or  fan-shaped, 
issuing  from  irregular  slits  in  silex  pavements 
with  radiate  structure,  the  sunbeams  sifting 
through  them  in  ravishing  splendor.  Some  are 
broad  and  round-headed  like  oaks ;  others  are 
low  and  bunchy,  branching  near  the  ground  like 
bushes ;  and  a  few  are  hollow  in  the  centre  like 
big  daisies  or  water-lilies.  No  frost  cools  them, 
snow  never  covers  them  nor  lodges  in  their 
branches ;  winter  and  summer  they  welcome  alike ; 
all  of  them,  of  whatever  form  or  size,  faithfully 
rising  and  sinking  in  fairy  rhythmic  dance  night 
and  day,  in  all  sorts  of  weather,  at  varying  periods 
of  minutes,  hours,  or  weeks,  growing  up  rapidly, 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK       43 

uncontrollable  as  fate,  tossing  their  pearly 
branches  in  the  wind,  bursting  into  bloom  and 
vanishing  like  the  frailest  flowers,  —  plants  of 
which  Nature  raises  hundreds  or  thousands  of 
crops  a  year  with  no  apparent  exhaustion  of  the 
fiery  soil. 

The  so-called  geyser  basins,  in  which  this  rare 
sort  of  vegetation  is  growing,  are  mostly  open 
valleys  on  the  central  plateau  that  were  eroded 
by  glaciers  after  the  greater  volcanic  fires  had 
ceased  to  burn.  Looking  down  over  the  forests 
as  you  approach  them  from  the  surrounding 
heights,  you  see  a  multitude  of  white  columns, 
broad,  reeking  masses,  and  irregular  jets  and 
puffs  of  misty  vapor  ascending  from  the  bottom 
of  the  valley,  or  entangled  like  smoke  among  the 
neighboring  trees,  suggesting  the  factories  of 
some  busy  town  or  the  camp-fires  of  an  army. 
These  mark  the  position  of  each  mush-pot,  paint- 
pot,  hot  spring,  and  geyser,  or  gusher,  as  the 
Icelandic  words  mean.  And  when  you  saunter 
into  the  midst  of  them  over  the  bright  sinter 
pavements,  and  see  how  pure  and  white  and 
pearly  gray  they  are  in  the  shade  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  how  radiant  in  the  sunshine,  you  are 
fairly  enchanted.  So  numerous  they  are  and 
varied,  Nature  seems  to  have  gathered  them 
from  all  the  world  as  specimens  of  her  rarest 
fountains,  to  show  in  one  place  what  she  can  do. 
Over  four  thousand  hot  springs  have  been  counted 


44  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

in  the  park,  and  a  hundred  geysers ;  how  many 
more  there  are  nobody  knows. 

These  valleys  at  the  heads  of  the  great  rivers 
may  be  regarded  as  laboratories  and  kitchens, 
in  which,  ainid  a  thousand  retorts  and  pots,  we 
may  see  Nature  at  work  as  chemist  or  cook,  cun- 
ningly compounding  an  infinite  variety  of  mineral 
messes ;  cooking  whole  mountains ;  boiling  and 
steaming  flinty  rocks  to  smooth  paste  and  mush, 
—  yellow,  brown,  red,  pink,  lavender,  gray,  and 
creamy  white,  —  making  the  most  beautiful  mud 
in  the  world ;  and  distilling  the  most  ethereal 
essences.  Many  of  these  pots  and  caldrons  have 
been  boiling  thousands  of  years.  Pots  of  sul- 
phurous mush,  stringy  and  lumpy,  and  pots  of 
broth  as  black  as  ink,  are  tossed  and  stirred  with 
constant  care,  and  thin  transparent  essences,  too 
pure  and  fine  to  be  called  water,  are  kept  simmer- 
ing gently  in  beautiful  sinter  cups  and  bowls 
that  grow  ever  more  beautiful  the  longer  they 
are  used.  In  some  of  the  spring  basins,  the 
waters,  though  still  warm,  are  perfectly  calm,  and 
shine  blandly  in  a  sod  of  overleaning  grass  and 
flowers,  as  if  they  were  thoroughly  cooked  at  last, 
and  set  aside  to  settle  and  cool.  Others  are 
wildly  boiling  over  as  if  running  to  waste,  thou- 
sands of  tons  of  the  precious  liquids  being  thrown 
into  the  air  to  fall  in  scalding  floods  on  the  clean 
coral  floor  of  the  establishment,  keeping  onlook- 
ers at  a  distance.  Instead  of  holding  limpid  pale 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        45 

green  or  azure  water,  other  pots  and  craters  are 
filled  with  scalding  mud,  which  is  tossed  up  from 
three  or  four  feet  to  thirty  feet,  in  sticky,  rank- 
smelling  masses,  with  gasping,  belching,  thud- 
ding sounds,  plastering  the  branches  of  neigh- 
boring trees ;  every  flask,  retort,  hot  spring,  and 
geyser  has  something  special  in  it,  no  two  being 
the  same  in  temperature,  color,  or  composition. 

In  these  natural  laboratories  one  needs  stout 
faith  to  feel  at  ease.  The  ground  sounds  hollow 
underfoot,  and  the  awful  subterranean  thunder 
shakes  one's  mind  as  the  ground  is  shaken,  es- 
pecially at  night  in  the  pale  moonlight,  or  when 
the  sky  is  overcast  with  storm-clouds.  In  the 
solemn  gloom,  the  geysers,  dimly  visible,  look 
like  monstrous  dancing  ghosts,  and  their  wild 
songs  and  the  earthquake  thunder  replying  to 
the  storms  overhead  seem  doubly  terrible,  as  if 
divine  government  were  at  an  end.  But  the 
trembling  hills  keep  their  places.  The  sky  clears, 
the  rosy  dawn  is  reassuring,  and  up  comes  the 
sun  like  a  god,  pouring  his  faithful  beams  across 
the  mountains  and  forest,  lighting  each  peak 
and  tree  and  ghastly  geyser  alike,  and  shining 
into  the  eyes  of  the  reeking  springs,  clothing 
them  with  rainbow  light,  and  dissolving  the 
seeming  chaos  of  darkness  into  varied  forms  of 
harmony.  The  ordinary  work  of  the  world  goes 
on.  Gladly  we  see  the  flies  dancing  in  the  sun- 
beams, birds  feeding  their  young,  squirrels  gath- 


46  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ering  nuts,  and  hear  the  blessed  ouzel  singing 
confidingly  in  the  shallows  of  the  river,  —  most 
faithful  evangel,  calming  every  fear,  reducing 
everything  to  love. 

The  variously  tinted  sinter  and  travertine 
formations,  outspread  like  pavements  over  large 
areas  of  the  geyser  valleys,  lining  the  spring 
basins  and  throats  of  the  craters,  and  forming 
beautiful  coral-like  rims  and  curbs  about  them, 
always  excite  admiring  attention ;  so  also  does 
the  play  of  the  waters  from  which  they  are  de- 
posited. The  various  minerals  in  them  are  rich 
in  colors,  and  these  are  greatly  heightened  by  a 
smooth,  silky  growth  of  brilliantly  colored  con- 
fervse  which  lines  many  of  the  pools  and  chan- 
nels and  terraces.  No  bed  of  flower-bloom  is 
more  exquisite  than  these  myriads  of  minute 
plants,  visible  only  in  mass,  growing  in  the  hot 
waters.  Most  of  the  spring  borders  are  low  and 
daintily  scalloped,  crenelated,  and  beaded  with 
sinter  pearls.  Some  of  the  geyser  craters  are 
massive  and  picturesque,  like  ruined  castles  or 
old  burned-out  sequoia  stumps,  and  are  adorned 
on  a  grand  scale  with  outbulging,  cauliflower- 
like  formations.  From  these  as  centres  the  silex 
pavements  slope  gently  away  in  thin,  crusty, 
overlapping  layers,  slightly  interrupted  in  some 
places  by  low  terraces.  Or,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  at  the  north  end  of  the 
park,  where  the  building  waters  issue  from  the 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        47 

side  of  a  steep  hill,  the  deposits  form  a  succession 
of  higher  and  broader  terraces  of  white  traver- 
tine tinged  with  purple,  like  the  famous  Pink 
Terrace  at  Rotomahana,  New  Zealand,  draped 
in  front  with  clustering  stalactites,  each  terrace 
having  a  pool  of  indescribably  beautiful  water 
upon  it  in  a  basin  with  a  raised  rim  that  glistens 
with  conf ervse,  —  the  whole,  when  viewed  at  a 
distance  of  a  mile  or  two,  looking  like  a  broad, 
massive  cascade  pouring  over  shelving  rocks  in 
snowy  purpled  foam. 

The  stones  of  this  divine  masonry,  invisible 
particles  of  lime  or  silex,  mined  in  quarries  no 
eye  has  seen,  go  to  their  appointed  places  in 
gentle,  tinkling,  transparent  currents  or  through 
the  dashing  turmoil  of  floods,  as  surely  guided 
as  the  sap  of  plants  streaming  into  bole  and 
branch,  leaf  and  flower.  And  thus  from  cen- 
tury to  century  this  beauty-work  has  gone  on  and 
is  going  on. 

Passing  though  many  a  mile  of  pine  and 
spruce  woods,  toward  the  centre  of  the  park  you 
come  to  the  famous  Yellowstone  Lake.  It  is 
about  twenty  miles  long  and  fifteen  wide,  and 
lies  at  a  height  of  nearly  8000  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  amid  dense  black  forests  and 
snowy  mountains.  Around  its  winding,  waver- 
ing shores,  closely  forested  and  picturesquely 
varied  with  promontories  and  bays,  the  distance 
is  more  than  100  miles.  It  is  not  very  deep, 


48  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

only  from  200  to  300  feet,  and  contains  less 
water  than  the  celebrated  Lake  Tahoe  of  the 
California  Sierra,  which  is  nearly  the  same  size, 
lies  at  a  height  of  6400  feet,  and  is  over  1600 
feet  deep.  But  no  other  lake  in  North  America 
of  equal  area  lies  so  high  as  the  Yellowstone,  or 
gives  birth  to  so  noble  a  river.  The  terraces 
around  its  shores  show  that  at  the  close  of  the 
glacial  period  its  surface  was  about  160  feet 
higher  than  it  is  now,  and  its  area  nearly  twice  as 
great. 

It  is  full  of  trout,  and  a  vast  multitude  of 
birds  —  swans,  pelicans,  geese,  ducks,  cranes, 
herons,  curlews,  plovers,  snipe  —  feed  in  it  and 
upon  its  shores ;  and  many  forest  animals  come 
out  of  the  woods,  and  wade  a  little  way  in  shal- 
low, sandy  places  to  drink  and  look  about  them, 
and  cool  themselves  in  the  free  flowing  breezes. 

In  calm  weather  it  is  a  magnificent  mirror  for 
the  woods  and  mountains  and  sky,  now  pattered 
with  hail  and  rain,  now  roughened  with  sudden 
storms  that  send  waves  to  fringe  the  shores  and 
wash  its  border  of  gravel  and  sand.  The  Absa- 
roka  Mountains  and  the  Wind  River  Plateau  on 
the  east  and  south  pour  their  gathered  waters 
into  it,  and  the  river  issues  from  the  north  side 
in  a  broad,  smooth,  stately  current,  silently  glid- 
ing with  such  serene  majesty  that  one  fancies  it 
knows  the  vast  journey  of  four  thousand  miles 
that  lies  before  it,  and  the  work  it  has  to  do. 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        49 

For  the  first  twenty  miles  its  course  is  in  a  level, 
sunny  valley  lightly  fringed  with  trees,  through 
which  it  flows  in  silvery  reaches  stirred  into 
spangles  here  and  there  by  ducks  and  leaping 
trout,  making  no  sound  save  a  low  whispering 
among  the  pebbles  and  the  dipping  willows  and 
sedges  of  its  banks.  Then  suddenly,  as  if  pre- 
paring for  hard  work,  it  rushes  eagerly,  impetu- 
ously forward  rejoicing  in  its  strength,  breaks 
into  foam-bloom,  and  goes  thundering  down  into 
the  Grand  Canon  in  two  magnificent  falls,  one 
hundred  and  three  hundred  feet  high. 

The  canon  is  so  tremendously  wild  and  im- 
pressive that  even  these  great  falls  cannot  hold 
your  attention.  It  is  about  twenty  miles  long 
and  a  thousand  feet  deep,  —  a  weird,  unearthly- 
looking  gorge  of  jagged,  fantastic  architecture, 
and  most  brilliantly  colored.  Here  the  Wash- 
burn  range,  forming  the  northern  rim  of  the 
Yellowstone  basin,  made  up  mostly  of  beds  of 
rhyolite  decomposed  by  the  action  of  thermal 
waters,  has  been  cut  through  and  laid  open  to 
view  by  the  river ;  and  a  famous  section  it  has 
made.  It  is  not  the  depth  or  the  shape  of  the 
canon,  nor  the  waterfall,  nor  the  green  and  gray 
river  chanting  its  brave  song  as  it  goes  foaming 
on  its  way,  that  most  impresses  the  observer,  but 
the  colors  of  the  decomposed  volcanic  rocks. 
With  few  exceptions,  the  traveler  in  strange 
lands  finds  that,  however  much  the  scenery  and 


50  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

vegetation  in  different  countries  may  change, 
Mother  Earth  is  ever  familiar  and  the  same. 
But  here  the  very  ground  is  changed,  as  if  be- 
longing to  some  other  world.  The  walls  of  the 
canon  from  top  to  bottom  burn  in  a  perfect 
glory  of  color,  confounding  and  dazzling  when 
the  sun  is  shining,  —  white,  yellow,  green,  blue, 
vermilion,  and  various  other  shades  of  red  indefi- 
nitely blending.  All  the  earth  hereabouts 
seems  to  be  paint.  Millions  of  tons  of  it  lie  in 
sight,  exposed  to  wind  and  weather  as  if  of  no 
account,  yet  marvelously  fresh  and  bright,  fast 
colors  not  to  be  washed  out  or  bleached  out  by 
either  sunshine  or  storms.  The  effect  is  so  novel 
and  awful,  we  imagine  that  even  a  river  might 
be  afraid  to  enter  such  a  place.  But  the  rich 
and  gentle  beauty  of  the  vegetation  is  reassur- 
ing. The  lovely  Linna3a  borealis  hangs  her 
twin  bells  over  the  brink  of  the  cliffs,  forests 
and  gardens  extend  their  treasures  in  smiling 
confidence  on  either  side,  nuts  and  berries  ripen 
well  whatever  may  be  going  on  below ;  blind 
fears  vanish,  and  the  grand  gorge  seems  a  kindly, 
beautiful  part  of  the  general  harmony,  full  of 
peace  and  joy  and  good  will. 

The  park  is  easy  of  access.  Locomotives  drag 
you  to  its  northern  boundary  at  Cinnabar,  and 
horses  and  guides  do  the  rest.  From  Cinnabar 
you  will  be  whirled  in  coaches  along  the  foam- 
ing Gardiner  Biver  to  Mammoth  Hot  Springs ; 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        51 

thence  through  woods  and  meadows,  gulches  and 
ravines  along  branches  of  the  Upper  Gallatin, 
Madison,  and  Firehole  rivers  to  the  main  geyser 
basins ;  thence  over  the  Continental  Divide  and 
back  again,  up  and  down  through  dense  pine, 
spruce,  and  fir  woods  to  the  magnificent  Yellow- 
stone Lake,  along  its  northern  shore  to  the  out- 
let, down  the  river  to  the  falls  and  Grand  Canon, 
and  thence  back  through  the  woods  to  Mammoth 
Hot  Springs  and  Cinnabar  ;  stopping  here  and 
there  at  the  so-called  points  of  interest  among 
the  geysers,  springs,  paint-pots,  mud  volcanoes, 
etc.,  where  you  will  be  allowed  a  few  minutes  or 
hours  to  saunter  over  the  sinter  pavements, 
watch  the  play  of  a  few  of  the  geysers,  and  peer 
into  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  terrible  of 
the  craters  and  pools.  These  wonders  you  will 
enjoy,  and  also  the  views  of  the  mountains,  espe- 
cially the  Gallatin  and  Absaroka  ranges,  the 
long,  willowy  glacier  and  beaver  meadows,  the 
beds  of  violets,  gentians,  phloxes,  asters,  phace- 
lias,  goldenrods,  eriogonums,  and  many  other 
flowers,  some  species  giving  color  to  whole 
meadows  and  hillsides.  And  you  will  enjoy 
your  short  views  of  the  great  lake  and  river  and 
canon.  No  scalping  Indians  will  you  see.  The 
Blackfeet  and  Bannocks  that  once  roamed  here 
are  gone ;  so  are  the  old  beaver-catchers,  the 
Coulters  and  Bridgers,  with  all  their  attractive 
buckskin  and  romance.  There  are  several  bands 


52  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  buffaloes  in  the  park,  but  you  will  not  thus 
cheaply  in  tourist  fashion  see  them  nor  many  of 
the  other  large  animals  hidden  in  the  wilderness. 
The  song-birds,  too,  keep  mostly  out  of  sight  of 
the  rushing  tourist,  though  off  the  roads  thrushes, 
warblers,  orioles,  grosbeaks,  etc.,  keep  the  air 
sweet  and  merry.  Perhaps  in  passing  rapids  and 
falls  you  may  catch  glimpses  of  the  water-ouzel, 
but  in  the  whirling  noise  you  will  not  hear  his 
song.  Fortunately,  no  road  noise  frightens  the 
Douglas  squirrel,  and  his  merry  play  and  gossip 
will  amuse  you  all  through  the  woods.  Here 
and  there  a  deer  may  be  seen  crossing  the  road, 
or  a  bear.  Most  likely,  however,  the  only  bears 
you  will  see  are  the  half  tame  ones  that  go  to  the 
hotels  every  night  for  dinner-table  scraps,  — 
yeast-powder  biscuit,  Chicago  canned  stuff,  mixed 
pickles,  and  beefsteaks  that  have  proved  too 
tough  for  the  tourists. 

Among  the  gains  of  a  coach  trip  are  the  ac- 
quaintances made  and  the  fresh  views  into  hu- 
man nature ;  for  the  wilderness  is  a  shrewd 
touchstone,  even  thus  lightly  approached,  and 
brings  many  a  curious  trait  to  view.  Setting 
out,  the  driver  cracks  his  whip,  and  the  four 
horses  go  off  at  half  gallop,  half  trot,  in  trained, 
showy  style,  until  out  of  sight  of  the  hotel.  The 
coach  is  crowded,  old  and  young  side  by  side, 
blooming  and  fading,  full  of  hope  and  fun  and 
care.  Some  look  at  the  scenery  or  the  horses, 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        53 

and  all  ask  questions,  an  odd  mixed  lot  of  them : 
"  Where  is  the  umbrella  ?  What  is  the  name  of 
that  blue  flower  over  there  ?  Are  you  sure  the 
little  bag  is  aboard  ?  Is  that  hollow  yonder  a 
crater?  How  is  your  throat  this  morning? 
How  high  did  you  say  the  geysers  spout  ?  How 
does  the  elevation  affect  your  head  ?  Is  that  a 
geyser  reeking  over  there  in  the  rocks,  or  only  a 
hot  spring  ?  "  A  long  ascent  is  made,  the  solemn 
mountains  come  to  view,  small  cares  are  quenched, 
and  all  become  natural  and  silent,  save  perhaps 
some  unfortunate  expounder  who  has  been  read- 
ing guidebook  geology,  and  rumbles  forth  foggy 
subsidences  and  upheavals  until  he  is  in  danger 
of  being  heaved  overboard.  The  driver  will 
give  you  the  names  of  the  peaks  and  meadows 
and  streams  as  you  come  to  them,  call  attention 
to  the  glass  road,  tell  how  hard  it  was  to  build, 
—  how  the  obsidian  cliffs  naturally  pushed  the 
surveyor's  lines  to  the  right,  and  the  industrious 
beavers,  by  flooding  the  valley  in  front  of  the 
cliff,  pushed  them  to  the  left. 

Geysers,  however,  are  the  main  objects,  and  as 
soon  as  they  come  in  sight  other  wonders  are  for- 
gotten. All  gather  around  the  crater  of  the  one 
that  is  expected  to  play  first.  During  the  erup- 
tions of  the  smaller  geysers,  such  as  the  Beehive 
and  Old  Faithful,  though  a  little  frightened  at 
first,  all  welcome  the  glorious  show  with  enthu- 
siasm, and  shout,  "  Oh,  how  wonderful,  beautiful, 


54  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

splendid,  majestic  !  "  Some  venture  near  enough 
to  stroke  the  column  with  a  stick,  as  if  it  were 
a  stone  pillar  or  a  tree,  so  firm  and  substantial 
and  permanent  it  seems.  While  tourists  wait 
around  a  large  geyser,  such  as  the  Castle  or  the 
Giant,  there  is  a  chatter  of  small  talk  in  anything 
but  solemn  mood;  and  during  the  intervals 
between  the  preliminary  splashes  and  upheavals 
some  adventurer  occasionally  looks  down  the 
throat  of  the  crater,  admiring  the  silex  forma- 
tions and  wondering  whether  Hades  is  as  beauti- 
ful. But  when,  with  awful  uproar  as  if  ava- 
lanches were  falling  and  storm&  thundering  in 
the  depths,  the  tremendous  outburst  begins, 
all  run  away  to  a  safe  distance,  and  look  on, 
awe-stricken  and  silent,  in  devout,  worshiping 
wonder. 

The  largest  and  one  of  the  most  wonderf  ully 
beautiful  of  the  springs  is  the  Prismatic,  which 
the  guide  will  be  sure  to  show  you.  With  a  cir- 
cumference of  300  yards,  it  is  more  like  a  lake 
than  a  spring.  The  water  is  pure  deep  blue  in 
the  centre,  fading  to  green  on  the  edges,  and  its 
basin  and  the  slightly  terraced  pavement  about 
it  are  astonishingly  bright  and  varied  in  color. 
This  one  of  the  multitude  of  Yellowstone  foun- 
tains is  of  itself  object  enough  for  a  trip  across 
the  continent.  No  wonder  that  so  many  fine 
myths  have  originated  in  springs ;  that  so  many 
fountains  were  held  sacred  in  the  youth  of  the 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        55 

world,  and  had  miraculous  virtues  ascribed  to 
them.  Even  in  these  cold,  doubting,  question- 
ing, scientific  times  many  of  the  Yellowstone 
fountains  seem  able  to  work  miracles.  Near  the 
Prismatic  Spring  is  the  great  Excelsior  Geyser, 
which  is  said  to  throw  a  column  of  boiling  water 
60  to  70  feet  in  diameter  to  a  height  of  from  50 
to  300  feet,  at  irregular  periods.  This  is  the 
greatest  of  all  the  geysers  yet  discovered  anywhere. 
The  Firehole  River,  which  sweeps  past  it,  is,  at 
ordinary  stages,  a  stream  about  100  yards  wide 
and  3  feet  deep ;  but  when  the  geyser  is  in 
eruption,  so  great  is  the  quantity  of  water  dis- 
charged that  the  volume  of  the  river  is  doubled, 
and  it  is  rendered  too  hot  and  rapid  to  be  forded. 

Geysers  are  found  in  many  other  volcanic  re- 
gions,—  in  Iceland,  New  Zealand,  Japan,  the 
Himalayas,  the  Eastern  Archipelago,  South 
America,  the  Azores,  and  elsewhere ;  but  only  in 
Iceland,  New  Zealand,  and  this  Rocky  Mountain 
park  do  they  display  their  grandest  forms,  and  of 
these  three  famous  regions  the  Yellowstone  is 
easily  first,  both  in  the  number  and  in  the  size  of 
its  geysers.  The  greatest  height  of  the  column 
of  the  Great  Geyser  of  Iceland  actually  measured 
was  212  feet,  and  of  the  Strokhr  162  feet. 

In  New  Zealand,  the  Te  Pueia  at  Lake  Taupo, 
the  Waikite  at  Rotorna,  and  two  others  are  said 
to  lift  their  waters  occasionally  to  a  height  of  100 
feet,  while  the  celebrated  Te  Tarata  at  Rotomahana 


56  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

sometimes  lifts  a  boiling  column  20  feet  in  diame- 
ter to  a  height  of  60  feet.  But  all  these  are  far 
surpassed  by  the  Excelsior.  Few  tourists,  how- 
ever, will  see  the  Excelsior  in  action,  or  a  thou- 
sand other  interesting  features  of  the  park  that 
lie  beyond  the  wagon-roads  and  the  hotels.  The 
regular  trips  —  from  three  to  five  days  —  are  too 
short.  Nothing  can  be  done  well  at  a  speed  of 
forty  miles  a  day.  The  multitude  of  mixed, 
novel  impressions  rapidly  piled  on  one  another 
make  only  a  dreamy,  bewildering,  swirling  blur, 
most  of  which  is  unrememberable.  Far  more 
time  should  be  taken.  Walk  away  quietly  in 
any  direction  and  taste  the  freedom  of  the  moun- 
taineer. Camp  out  among  the  grass  and  gentians 
of  glacier  meadows,  in  craggy  garden  nooks  full 
of  Nature's  darlings.  Climb  the  mountains  and 
get  their  good  tidings.  Nature's  peace  will  flow 
into  you  as  sunshine  flows  into  trees.  The  winds 
will  blow  their  own  freshness  into  you,  and  the 
storms  their  energy,  while  cares  will  drop  off  like 
autumn  leaves.  As  age  comes  on,  one  source  of 
enjoyment  after  another  is  closed,  but  Nature's 
sources  never  fail.  Like  a  generous  host,  she 
offers  here  brimming  cups  in  endless  variety, 
served  in  a  grand  hall,  the  sky  its  ceiling,  the 
mountains  its  walls,  decorated  with  glorious  paint- 
ings and  enlivened  with  bands  of  music  ever  play- 
ing. The  petty  discomforts  that  beset  the 
awkward  guest,  the  unskilled  camper,  are  quickly 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK      57 

forgotten,  while  all  that  is  precious  remains. 
Fears  vanish  as  soon  as  one  is  fairly  free  in  the 
wilderness. 

Most  of  the  dangers  that  haunt  the  unseasoned 
citizen  are  imaginary ;  the  real  ones  are  perhaps 
too  few  rather  than  too  many  for  his  good. 
The  bears  that  always  seem  to  spring  up 
thick  as  trees,  in  fighting,  devouring  attitudes 
before  the  frightened  tourist  whenever  a  camp- 
ing trip  is  proposed,  are  gentle  now,  finding  they 
are  no  longer  likely  to  be  shot ;  and  rattlesnakes, 
the  other  big  irrational  dread  of  over-civilized 
people,  are  scarce  here,  for  most  of  the  park  lies 
above  the  snake-line.  Poor  creatures,  loved  only 
by  their  Maker,  they  are  timid  and  bashful,  as 
mountaineers  know;  and  though  perhaps  not 
possessed  of  much  of  that  charity  that  suffers 
long  and  is  kind,  seldom,  either  by  mistake  or 
by  mishap,  do  harm  to  any  one.  Certainly  they 
cause  not  the  hundredth  part  of  the  pain  and 
death  that  follow  the  footsteps  of  the  admired 
Rocky  Mountain  trapper.  Nevertheless,  again 
and  again,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  the  ques- 
tion comes  up,  "  What  are  rattlesnakes  good 
for  ?  "  As  if  nothing  that  does  not  obviously 
make  for  the  benefit  of  man  had  any  right  to 
exist ;  as  if  our  ways  were  God's  ways.  Long 
ago,  an  Indian  to  whom  a  French  traveler  put 
this  old  question  replied  that  their  tails  were 
good  for  toothache,  and  their  heads  for  fever. 


58  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Anyhow,  they  are  all,  head  and  tail,  good  for 
themselves,  and  we  need  not  begrudge  them  their 
share  of  life. 

Fear  nothing.  No  town  park  you  have  been 
accustomed  to  saunter  in  is  so  free  from  danger 
as  the  Yellowstone.  It  is  a  hard  place  to  leave. 
Even  its  names  in  your  guidebook  are  attractive, 
and  should  draw  you  far  from  wagon-roads,  —  all 
save  the  early  ones,  derived  from  the  infernal  re- 
gions: Hell  Roaring  River,  Hell  Broth  Springs, 
The  Devil's  Caldron,  etc.  Indeed,  the  whole  re- 
gion was  at  first  called  Coulter's  Hell,  from  the 
fiery  brimstone  stories  told  by  trapper  Coulter, 
who  left  the  Lewis  and  Clark  expedition  and 
wandered  through  the  park,  in  the  year  1807, 
with  a  band  of  Bannock  Indians.  The  later 
names,  many  of  which  we  owe  to  Mr.  Arnold 
Hague  of  the  U.  S.  Geological  Survey,  are  so 
telling  and  exhilarating  that  they  set  our  pulses 
dancing  and  make  us  begin  to  enjoy  the  pleas- 
ures of  excursions  ere  they  are  commenced. 
Three  River  Peak,  Two  Ocean  Pass,  Continental 
Divide,  are  capital  geographical  descriptions,  sug- 
gesting thousands  of  miles  of  rejoicing  streams 
and  all  that  belongs  to  them.  Big  Horn  Pass, 
Bison  Peak,  Big  Game  Ridge,  bring  brave  moun- 
tain animals  to  mind.  Birch  Hills,  Garnet  Hills, 
Amethyst  Mountain,  Storm  Peak,  Electric  Peak, 
Roaring  Mountain,  are  bright,  bracing  names. 
Wapiti,  Beaver,  Tern,  and  Swan  lakes,  conjure 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        59 

up  fine  pictures,  and  so  also  do  Osprey  and  Ouzel 
falls.  Antelope  Creek,  Otter,  Mink,  and  Gray- 
ling creeks,  Geode,  Jasper,  Opal,  Carnelian,  and 
Chalcedony  creeks,  are  lively  and  sparkling 
names  that  help  the  streams  to  shine ;  and 
Azalea,  Stellaria,  Arnica,  Aster,  and  Phlox 
creeks,  what  pictures  these  bring  up !  Violet, 
Morning  Mist,  Hygeia,  Beryl,  Vermilion,  and 
Indigo  springs,  and  many  beside,  give  us  visions 
of  fountains  more  beautifully  arrayed  than 
Solomon  in  all  his  purple  and  golden  glory. 
All  these  and  a  host  of  others  call  you  to  camp. 
You  may  be  a  little  cold  some  nights,  on  moun- 
tain tops  above  the  timber-line,  but  you  will  see  the 
stars,  and  by  and  by  you  can  sleep  enough  in  your 
town  bed,  or  at  least  in  your  grave.  Keep  awake 
while  you  may  in  mountain  mansions  so  rare. 

If  you  are  not  very  strong,  try  to  climb  Elec- 
tric Peak  when  a  big  bossy,  well-charged  thun- 
der-cloud is  on  it,  to  breathe  the  ozone  set  free, 
and  get  yourself  kindly  shaken  and  shocked. 
You  are  sure  to  be  lost  in  wonder  and  praise, 
and  every  hair  of  your  head  will  stand  up  and 
hum  and  sing  like  an  enthusiastic  congregation. 

After  this  reviving  experience,  you  should  take 
a  look  into  a  few  of  the  tertiary  volumes  of  the 
grand  geological  library  of  the  park,  and  see  how 
God  writes  history.  No  technical  knowledge  is  re- 
quired ;  only  a  calm  day  and  a  calm  mind.  Per- 
haps nowhere  else  in  the  Eocky  Mountains  have 


60  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  volcanic  forces  been  so  busy.  More  than 
ten  thousand  square  miles  hereabouts  have  been 
covered  to  a  depth  of  at  least  five  thousand  feet 
with  material  spouted  from  chasms  and  craters 
during  the  tertiary  period,  forming  broad  sheets 
of  basalt,  andesite,  rhyolite,  etc.,  and  marvelous 
masses  of  ashes,  sand,  cinders,  and  stones  now 
consolidated  into  conglomerates,  charged  with  the 
remains  of  plants  and  animals  that  lived  in  the 
calm,  genial  periods  that  separated  the  volcanic 
outbursts. 
^Perhaps  the  most  interesting  and  telling  of 

these  rocks,  to  the  hasty  tourist,  are  those  that 

'  «/ 

make  up  the  mass  of  Amethyst  Mountain.  On  its 
north  side  it  presents  a  section  two  thousand  feet 
high  of  roughly  stratified  beds  of  sand,  ashes,  and 
conglomerates  coarse  and  fine,  forming  the  un- 
trimmed  edges  of  a  wonderful  set  of  volumes  ly- 
ing on  their  sides,  —  books  a  million  years  old, 
well  bound,  miles  in  size,  with  full-page  illustra- 
tions. On  the  ledges  of  this  one  section  we  see 
trunks  and  stumps  of  fifteen  or  twenty  ancient 
forests  ranged  one  above  another,  standing  where 
they  grew,  or  prostrate  and  broken  like  the  pil- 
lars of  ruined  temples  in  desert  sands,  —  a  forest 
fifteen  or  twenty  stories  high,  the  roots  of  each 
spread  above  the  tops  of  the  next  beneath  it,  tell- 
ing wonderful  tales  of  the  bygone  centuries,  with 
their  winters  and  summers,  growth  and  death, 
fire,  ice,  and  flood.) 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        61 

There  were  giants  in  those  days.  The  largest 
of  the  standing  opal  and  agate  stumps  and  pros- 
trate sections  of  the  trunks  are  from  two  or  three 
to  fifty  feet  in  height  or  length,  and  from  five 
to  ten  feet  in  diameter  ;  and  so  perfect  is  the  pet- 
rifaction that  the  annual  rings  and  ducts  are 
clearer  and  more  easily  counted  than  those  of 
living  trees,  centuries  of  burial  having  brightened 
the  records  instead  of  blurring  them.  They  show 
that  the  winters  of  the  tertiary  period  gave  as 
decided  a  check  to  vegetable  growth  as  do  those 
of  the  present  time.  Some  trees  favorably  lo- 
cated grew  rapidly,  increasing  twenty  inches  in 
diameter  in  as  many  years,  while  others  of  the 
same  species,  on  poorer  soil  or  overshadowed,  in- 
creased only  two  or  three  inches  in  the  same 
time. 

Among  the  roots  and  stumps  on  the  old  forest 
floors  we  find  the  remains  of  ferns  and  bushes, 
and  the  seeds  and  leaves  of  trees  like  those  now 
growing  on  the  southern  Alleghanies,  —  such  as 
magnolia,  sassafras,  laurel,  linden,  persimmon, 
ash,  alder,  dogwood.  Studying  the  lowest  of 
these  forests,  the  soil  it  grew  on  and  the  deposits 
it  is  buried  in,  we  see  that  it  was  rich  in  species, 
and  flourished  in  a  genial,  sunny  climate.  When 
its  stately  trees  were  in  their  glory,  volcanic  fires 
broke  forth  from  chasms  and  craters,  like  larger 
geysers,  spouting  ashes,  cinders,  stones,  and  mud, 
which  fell  on  the  doomed  forest  like  hail  and 


62  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

snow ;  sifting,  hurtling  through  the  leaves  and 
branches,  choking  the  streams,  covering  the 
ground,  crushing  bushes  and  ferns,  rapidly  deep- 
ening, packing  around  the  trees  and  breaking 
them,  rising  higher  until  the  topmost  boughs  of 
the  giants  were  buried,  leaving  not  a  leaf  or  twig 
in  sight,  so  complete  was  the  desolation.  At  last 
the  volcanic  storm  began  to  abate,  the  fiery  soil 
settled;  mud  floods  and  boulder  floods  passed 
over  it,  enriching  it,  cooling  it ;  rains  fell  and 
mellow  sunshine,  and  it  became  fertile  and  ready 
for  another  crop.  Birds,  and  the  winds,  and 
roaming  animals  brought  seeds  from  more  fortu- 
nate woods,  and  a  new  forest  grew  up  on  the  top 
of  the  buried  one.  Centuries  of  genial  growing 
seasons  passed.  The  seedling  trees  became  giants, 
and  with  strong  outreaching  branches  spread  a 
leafy  canopy  over  the  gray  land. 

The  sleeping  subterranean  fires  again  awake 
and  shake  the  mountains,  and  every  leaf  trem- 
bles. The  old  craters,  with  perhaps  new  ones,  are 
opened,  and  immense  quantities  of  ashes,  pumice, 
and  cinders  are  again  thrown  into  the  sky.  The 
sun,  shorn  of  his  beams,  glows  like  a  dull  red 
ball,  until  hidden  in  sulphurous  clouds.  Volcanic 
snow,  hail,  and  floods  fall  on  the  new  forest, 
burying  it  alive,  like  the  one  beneath  its  roots. 
Then  come  another  noisy  band  of  mud  floods 
and  boulder  floods,  mixing,  settling,  enriching 
the  new  ground,  more  seeds,  quickening  sun- 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PAEK        63 

shine  and  showers ;  and  a  third  noble  magnolia 
forest  is  carefully  raised  on  the  top  of  the  second. 
And  so  on.  Forest  was  planted  above  forest 
and  destroyed,  as  if  Nature  were  ever  repenting, 
undoing  the  work  she  had  so  industriously  done, 
and  burying  it. 

Of  course  this  destruction  was  creation,  pro- 
gress in  the  march  of  beauty  through  death. 
How  quickly  these  old  monuments  excite  and 
hold  the  imagination  !  We  see  the  old  stone 
stumps  budding  and  blossoming  and  waving  in 
the  wind  as  magnificent  trees,  standing  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  branches  interlacing  in  grand  varied 
round-headed  forests  ;  see  the  sunshine  of  morn- 
ing and  evening  gilding  their  mossy  trunks,  and 
at  high  noon  spangling  on  the  thick  glossy 
leaves  of  the  magnolia,  filtering  through  translu- 
cent canopies  of  linden  and  ash,  and  falling  in 
mellow  patches  on  the  ferny  floor ;  see  the  shin- 
ing after  rain,  breathe  the  exhaling  fragrance, 
and  hear  the  winds  and  birds  and  the  murmur 
of  brooks  and  insects.  We  watch  them  from  sea- 
son to  season ;  see  the  swelling  buds  when  the 
sap  begins  to  flow  in  the  spring,  the  opening 
leaves  and  blossoms,  the  ripening  of  summer 
fruits,  the  colors  of  autumn,  and  the  maze  of 
leafless  branches  and  sprays  in  winter ;  and  we 
see  the  sudden  oncome  of  the  storms  that  over- 
whelmed them. 

One  calm  morning  at  sunrise  I  saw  the  oaks 


64  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  pines  in  Yosemite  Valley  shaken  by  an  earth- 
quake, their  tops  swishing  back  and  forth,  and 
every  branch  and  needle  shuddering  as  if  in  dis- 
tress like  the  frightened  screaming  birds.  One 
may  imagine  the  trembling,  rocking,  tumultuous 
waving  of  those  ancient  Yellowstone  woods,  and 
the  terror  of  their  inhabitants  when  the  first 
foreboding  shocks  were  felt,  the  sky  grew  dark, 
and  rock-laden  floods  began  to  roar.  But  though 
they  were  close  pressed  and  buried,  cut  off  from 
sun  and  wind,  all  their  happy  leaf-fluttering  and 
waving  done,  other  currents  coursed  through 
them,  fondling  and  thrilling  every  fibre,  and 
beautiful  wood  was  replaced  by  beautiful  stone. 
Now  their  rocky  sepulchres  are  partly  open,  and 
show  forth  the  natural  beauty  of  death. 

After  the  forest  times  and  fire  times  had 
passed  away,  and  the  volcanic  furnaces  were 
banked  and  held  in  abeyance,  another  great 
change  occurred.  The  glacial  winter  came  on. 
The  sky  was  again  darkened,  not  with  dust  and 
ashes,  but  with  snow  which  fell  in  glorious  abun- 
dance, piling  deeper,  deeper,  slipping  from  the 
overladen  heights  in  booming  avalanches,  com- 
pacting into  glaciers,  that  flowed  over  all  the 
landscape,  wiping  off  forests,  grinding,  sculptur- 
ing, fashioning  the  comparatively  featureless 
lava  beds  into  the  beautiful  rhythm  of  hill  and 
dale  and  ranges  of  mountains  we  behold  to-day ; 
forming  basins  for  lakes,  channels  for  streams, 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        65 

new  soils  for  forests,  gardens,  and  meadows. 
While  this  ice-work  was  going  on,  the  slumber- 
ing volcanic  fires  were  boiling  the  subterranean 
waters,  and  with  curious  chemistry  decomposing 
the  rocks,  making  beauty  in  the  darkness ;  these 
forces,  seemingly  antagonistic,  working  harmo- 
niously together.  How  wild  their  meetings  on 
the  surface  were  we  may  imagine.  When  the 
glacier  period  began,  geysers  and  hot  springs 
were  playing  in  grander  volume,  it  may  be,  than 
those  of  to-day.  The  glaciers  flowed  over  them 
while  they  spouted  and  thundered,  carrying  away 
their  fine  sinter  and  travertine  structures,  and 
shortening  their  mysterious  channels. 

The  soils  made  in  the  down-grinding  required 
to  bring  the  present  features  of  the  landscape 
into  relief  are  possibly  no  better  than  were  some 
of  the  old  volcanic  soils  that  were  carried  away, 
and  which,  as  we  have  seen,  nourished  magnifi- 
cent forests,  but  the  glacial  landscapes  are  incom- 
parably more  beautiful  than  the  old  volcanic 
ones  were.  The  glacial  winter  has  passed  away, 
like  the  ancient  summers  and  fire  periods,  though 
in  the  chronolgy  of  the  geologist  all  these  times 
are  recent.  Only  small  residual  glaciers  on  the 
cool  northern  slopes  of  the  highest  mountains 
are  left  of  the  vast  all-embracing  ice-mantle,  as 
solfataras  and  geysers  are  all  that  are  left  of  the 
ancient  volcanoes. 

Now  the  post-glacial  agents  are  at  work  on  the 


66  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

grand  old  palimpsest  of  the  park  region,  inscrib- 
ing new  characters ;  but  still  in  its  main  telling 
features  it  remains  distinctly  glacial.  The 
moraine  soils  are  being  leveled,  sorted,  refined, 
re-formed,  and  covered  with  vegetation ;  the  pol- 
ished pavements  and  scoring  and  other  superficial 
glacial  inscriptions  on  the  crumbling  lavas  are 
being  rapidly  obliterated ;  gorges  are  being  cut  in 
the  decomposed  rhyolites  and  loose  conglome- 
rates, and  turrets  and  pinnacles  seem  to  be 
springing  up  like  growing  trees ;  while  the  gey- 
sers are  depositing  miles  of  sinter  and  travertine. 
Nevertheless,  the  ice-work  is  scarce  blurred  as 
yet.  These  later  effects  are  only  spots  and 
wrinkles  on  the  grand  glacial  countenance  of  the 
park. 

Perhaps  you  have  already  said  that  you  have 
seen  enough  for  a  lifetime.  But  before  you  go 
away  you  should  spend  at  least  one  day  and  a 
night  on  a  mountain  top,  for  a  last  general, 
calming,  settling  view.  Mount  Washburn  is  a 
good  one  for  the  purpose,  because  it  stands  in 
the  middle  of  the  park,  is  unencumbered  with 
other  peaks,  and  is  so  easy  of  access  that  the 
climb  to  its  summit  is  only  a  saunter.  First  your 
eye  goes  roving  around  the  mountain  rim  amid 
the  hundreds  of  peaks  :  some  with  plain  flowing 
skirts,  others  abruptly  precipitous  and  defended 
by  sheer  battlemented  escarpments;  flat-topped 
or  round ;  heaving  like  sea-waves  or  spired  and 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        67 

turreted  like  Gothic  cathedrals;  streaked  with 
snow  in  the  ravines,  and  darkened  with  files  of 
adventurous  trees  climbing  the  ridges.  The 
nearer  peaks  are  perchance  clad  in  sapphire 
blue,  others  far  off  in  creamy  white.  In  the 
broad  glare  of  noon  they  seem  to  shrink  and 
crouch  to  less  than  half  their  real  stature,  and 
grow  dull  and  uncommunicative,  —  mere  dead, 
draggled  heaps  of  waste  ashes  and  stone,  giving 
no  hint  of  the  multitude  of  animals  enjoying  life 
in  their  fastnesses,  or  of  the  bright  bloom- 
bordered  streams  and  lakes.  But  when  storms 
blow  they  awake  and  arise,  wearing  robes  of 
cloud  and  mist  in  majestic  speaking  attitudes  like 
gods.  In  the  color  glory  of  morning  and  evening 
they  become  still  more  impressive ;  steeped  in 
the  divine  light  of  the  alpenglow  their  earthi- 
ness  disappears,  and,  blending  with  the  heavens, 
they  seem  neither  high  nor  low. 

Over  all  the  central  plateau,  which  from  here 
seems  level,  and  over  the  foothills  and  lower 
slopes  of  the  mountains,  the  forest  extends  like  a 
black  uniform  bed  of  weeds,  interrupted  only 
by  lakes  and  meadows  and  small  burned  spots 
called  parks,  —  all  of  them,  except  the  Yellow- 
stone Lake,  being  mere  dots  and  spangles  in  gen- 
eral views,  made  conspicuous  by  their  color  and 
brightness.  About  eighty-five  per  cent  of  the 
entire  area  of  the  park  is  covered  with  trees, 
mostly  the  indomitable  lodge-pole  pine  (Pinus 


68  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

contorta,  var.  Murrayana),  with  a  few  patches 
and  sprinklings  of  Douglas  spruce,  Engelmann 
spruce,  silver  fir  (Abies  lasiocarpa),  Pinus  flexi- 
lis,  and  a  few  alders,  aspens,  and  birches.  The 
Douglas  spruce  is  found  only  on  the  lowest  por- 
tions, the  silver  fir  on  the  highest,  and  the  Engel- 
mann spruce  on  the  dampest  places,  best  defended 
from  fire.  Some  fine  specimens  of  the  flexilis 
pine  are  growing  on  the  margins  of  openings,  — 
wide-branching,  sturdy  trees,  as  broad  as  high, 
with  trunks  five  feet  in  diameter,  leafy  and 
shady,  laden  with  purple  cones  and  rose-colored 
flowers.  The  Engelmann  spruce  and  sub-alpine 
silver  fir  are  beautiful  and  notable  trees,  — 
tall,  spiry,  hardy,  frost  and  snow  defying,  and 
widely  distributed  over  the  West,  wherever  there 
is  a  mountain  to  climb  or  a  cold  moraine  slope 
to  cover.  But  neither  of  these  is  a  good  fire- 
fighter. With  rather  thin  bark,  and  scattering 
their  seeds  every  year  as  soon  as  they  are  ripe, 
they  are  quickly  driven  out  of  fire-swept  re- 
gions. When  the  glaciers  were  melting,  these 
hardy  mountaineering  trees  were  probably  among 
the  first  to  arrive  on  the  new  moraine  soil  beds ; 
but  as  the  plateau  became  drier  and  fires  began 
to  run,  they  were  driven  up  the  mountains,  and 
into  the  wet  spots  and  islands  where  we  now  find 
them,  leaving  nearly  all  the  park  to  the  lodge- 
pole  pine,  which,  though  as  thin-skinned  as  they 
and  as  easily  killed  by  fire,  takes  pains  to  store 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK       69 

up  its  seeds  in  firmly  closed  cones,  and  holds 
them  from  three  to  nine  years,  so  that,  let  the 
fire  come  when  it  may,  it  is  ready  to  die  and 
ready  to  live  again  in  a  new  generation.  For 
when  the  killing  fires  have  devoured  the  leaves 
and  thin  resinous  bark,  many  of  the  cones,  only 
scorched,  open  as  soon  as  the  smoke  clears  away ; 
the  hoarded  store  of  seeds  is  sown  broadcast  on 
the  cleared  ground,  and  a  new  growth  imme- 
diately springs  up  triumphant  out  of  the  ashes. 
Therefore,  this  tree  not  only  holds  its  ground, 
but  extends  its  conquests  farther  after  every  fire. 
Thus  the  evenness  and  closeness  of  its  growth  are 
accounted  for.  In  one  part  of  the  forest  that  I 
examined,  the  growth  was  about  as  close  as  a  cane- 
brake.  The  trees  were  from  four  to  eight  inches 
in  diameter,  one  hundred  feet  high,  and  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five  years  old.  The  lower  limbs 
die  young  and  drop  off  for  want  of  light.  Life 
with  these  close-planted  trees  is  a  race  for  light, 
more  light,  and  so  they  push  straight  for  the  sky. 
Mowing  off  ten  feet  from  the  top  of  the  forest 
would  make  it  look  like  a  crowded  mass  of  tele- 
graph-poles ;  for  only  the  sunny  tops  are  leafy.  A 
sapling  ten  years  old,  growing  in  the  sunshine, 
has  as  many  leaves  as  a  crowded  tree  one  or  two 
hundred  years  old.  As  fires  are  multiplied  and  the 
mountains  become  drier,  this  wonderful  lodge- 
pole  pine  bids  fair  to  obtain  possession  of  nearly 
all  the  forest  ground  in  the  West. 


70  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

How  still  the  woods  seem  from  here,  yet  how 
lively  a  stir  the  hidden  animals  are  making; 
digging,  gnawing,  biting,  eyes  shining,  at  work 
and  play,  getting  food,  rearing  young,  roving 
through  the  underbrush,  climbing  the  rocks, 
wading  solitary  marshes,  tracing  the  banks  of  the 
lakes  and  streams  !  Insect  swarms  are  dancing  in 
the  sunbeams,  burrowing  in  the  ground,  diving, 
swimming, — a  cloud  of  witnesses  telling  Nature's 
joy.  The  plants  are  as  busy  as  the  animals,  every 
cell  in  a  swirl  of  enjoyment,  humming  like  a 
hive,  singing  the  old  new  song  of  creation.  A 
few  columns  and  puffs  of  steam  are  seen  rising 
above  the  treetops,  some  near,  but  most  of  them 
far  off,  indicating  geysers  and  hot  springs,  gentle- 
looking  and  noiseless  as  downy  clouds,  softly 
hinting  the  reaction  going  on  between  the  sur- 
face and  the  hot  interior.  From  here  you  see 
them  better  than  when  you  are  standing  be- 
side them,  frightened  and  confused,  regarding 
them  as  lawless  cataclysms.  The  shocks  and  out- 
bursts of  earthquakes,  volcanoes,  geysers,  storms, 
the  pounding  of  waves,  the  uprush  of  sap  in 
plants,  each  and  all  tell  the  orderly  love-beats  of 
Nature's  heart. 

Turning  to  the  eastward,  you  have  the  Grand 
Canon  and  reaches  of  the  river  in  full  view  ;  and 
yonder  to  the  southward  lies  the  great  lake,  the 
largest  and  most  important  of  all  the  high  foun- 
tains of  the  Missouri-Mississippi,  and  the  last  to 
be  discovered. 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK       71 

In  the  year  1541,  when  De  Soto,  with  a  ro- 
mantic band  of  adventurers,  was  seeking  gold 
and  glory  and  the  fountain  of  youth,  he  found 
the  Mississippi  a  few  hundred  miles  above  its 
mouth,  and  made  his  grave  beneath  its  floods. 
La  Salle,  in  1682,  after  discovering  the  Ohio, 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  beautiful  branches  of 
the  Mississippi,  traced  the  latter  to  the  sea  from 
the  mouth  of  the  Illinois,  through  adventures  and 
privations  not  easily  realized  now.  About  the 
same  time  Joliet  and  Father  Marquette  reached 
the  "  Father  of  Waters  "  by  way  of  the  Wiscon- 
sin, but  more  than  a  century  passed  ere  its  high- 
est sources  in  these  mountains  were  seen.  The 
advancing  stream  of  civilization  has  ever  followed 
its  guidance  toward  the  west,  but  none  of  the 
thousand  tribes  of  Indians  living  on  its  banks 
could  tell  the  explorer  whence  it  came.  From 
those  romantic  De  Soto  and  La  Salle  days  to 
these  times  of  locomotives  and  tourists,  how  much 
has  the  great  river  seen  and  done !  Great  as  it 
now  is,  and  still  growing  longer  through  the 
ground  of  its  delta  and  the  basins  of  receding  gla- 
ciers at  its  head,  it  was  immensely  broader  toward 
the  close  of  the  glacial  period,  when  the  ice-man- 
tle of  the  mountains  was  melting :  then  with  its 
three  hundred  thousand  miles  of  branches  out- 
spread over  the  plains  and  valleys  of  the  conti- 
nent, laden  with  fertile  mud,  it  made  the  biggest 
and  most  generous  bed  of  soil  in  the  world. 


72  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Think  of  this  mighty  stream  springing  in  the 
first  place  in  vapor  from  the  sea,  flying  on  the 
wind,  alighting  on  the  mountains  in  hail  and 
snow  and  rain,  lingering  in  many  a  fountain 
feeding  the  trees  and  grass ;  then  gathering  its 
scattered  waters,  gliding  from  its  noble  lake,  and 
going  back  home  to  the  sea,  singing  all  the  way  ! 
On  it  sweeps,  through  the  gates  of  the  mountains, 
across  the  vast  prairies  and  plains,  through  many 
a  wild,  gloomy  forest,  cane-brake,  and  sunny 
savanna ;  from  glaciers  and  snowbanks  and  pine 
woods  to  warm  groves  of  magnolia  and  palm ; 
geysers  dancing  at  its  head  keeping  time  with 
the  sea-waves  at  its  mouth  ;  roaring  and  gray  in 
rapids,  booming  in  broad,  bossy  falls,  murmuring, 
gleaming  in  long,  silvery  reaches,  swaying  now 
hither,  now  thither,  whirling,  bending  in  huge 
doubling,  eddying  folds,  serene,  majestic,  ungov- 
ernable, overflowing  all  its  metes  and  bounds, 
frightening  the  dwellers  upon  its  banks  ;  build- 
ing, wasting,  uprooting,  planting ;  engulfing  old 
islands  and  making  new  ones,  taking  away  fields 
and  towns  as  if  in  sport,  carrying  canoes  and 
ships  of  commerce  in  the  midst  of  its  spoils  and 
drift,  fertilizing  the  continent  as  one  vast  farm. 
Then,  its  work  done,  it  gladly  vanishes  in  its 
ocean  home,  welcomed  by  the  waiting  waves. 

Thus  naturally,  standing  here  in  the  midst  of 
its  fountains,  we  trace  the  fortunes  of  the  great 
river.  And  how  much  more  comes  to  mind  as 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        73 

we  overlook  this  wonderful  wilderness !  Foun- 
tains of  the  Columbia  and  Colorado  lie  before 
us,  interlaced  with  those  of  the  Yellowstone  and 
Missouri,  and  fine  it  would  be  to  go  with  them  to 
the  Pacific ;  but  the  sun  is  already  in  the  west, 
and  soon  our  day  will  be  done. 

Yonder  is  Amethyst  Mountain,  and  other 
mountains  hardly  less  rich  in  old  forests,  which 
now  seem  to  spring  up  again  in  their  glory  ;  and 
you  see  the  storms  that  buried  them,  —  the  ashes 
and  torrents  laden  with  boulders  and  mud,  the 
centuries  of  sunshine,  and  the  dark,  lurid  nights. 
You  see  again  the  vast  floods  of  lava,  red-hot  and 
white-hot,  pouring  out  from  gigantic  geysers, 
usurping  the  basins  of  lakes  and  streams,  absorb- 
ing or  driving  away  their  hissing,  screaming 
waters,  flowing  around  hills  and  ridges,  submerg- 
ing every  subordinate  feature.  Then  you  see 
the  snow  and  glaciers  taking  possession  of  the 
land,  making  new  landscapes.  How  admirable 
it  is  that,  after  passing  through  so  many  vicissi- 
tudes of  frost  and  fire  and  flood,  the  physiog- 
nomy and  even  the  complexion  of  the  landscape 
should  still  be  so  divinely  fine  ! 

Thus  reviewing  the  eventful  past,  we  see  Na- 
ture working  with  enthusiasm  like  a  man,  blowing 
her  volcanic  forges  like  a  blacksmith  blowing 
his  smithy  fires,  shoving  glaciers  over  the  land- 
scapes like  a  carpenter  shoving  his  planes,  clear- 
ing, ploughing,  harrowing,  irrigating,  planting, 


74  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  sowing  broadcast  like  a  farmer  and  gardener, 
doing  rough  work  and  fine  work,  planting  se- 
quoias and  pines,  rosebushes  and  daisies ;  work- 
ing in  gems,  filling  every  crack  and  hollow  with 
them ;  distilling  fine  essences ;  painting  plants 
and  shells,  clouds,  mountains,  all  the  earth  and 
heavens,  like  an  artist,  —  ever  working  toward 
beauty  higher  and  higher.  Where  may  the 
mind  find  more  stimulating,  quickening  pastur- 
age? A  thousand  Yellowstone  wonders  are  call- 
ing, "  Look  up  and  down  and  round  about  you  !  " 
And  a  multitude  of  still,  small  voices  may  be 
heard  directing  you  to  look  through  all  this 
transient,  shifting  show  of  things  called  "  sub- 
stantial "  into  the  truly  substantial,  spiritual  world 
whose  forms  flesh  and  wood,  rock  and  water,  air 
and  sunshine,  only  veil  and  conceal,  and  to  learn 
that  here  is  heaven  and  the  dwelling-place  of  the 
angels. 

The  sun  is  setting ;  long,  violet  shadows  are 
growing  out  over  the  woods  from  the  mountains 
along  the  western  rim  of  the  park ;  the  Absaroka 
range  is  baptized  in  the  divine  I  ight  of  the  alpen- 
glow,  and  its  rocks  and  trees  are  transfigured. 
Next  to  the  light  of  the  dawn  on  high  mountain 
tops,  the  alpenglow  is  the  most  impressive  of  all 
the  terrestrial  manifestations  of  God. 

Now  comes  the  gloaming.  The  alpenglow  is 
fading  into  earthy,  murky  gloom,  but  do  not  let 
your  town  habits  draw  you  away  to  the  hotel. 


THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK        75 

Stay  on  this  good  fire-mountain  and  spend  the 
night  among  the  stars.  Watch  their  glorious 
bloom  until  the  dawn,  and  get  one  more  baptism 
of  light.  Then,  with  fresh  heart,  go  down  to 
your  work,  and  whatever  your  fate,  under  what- 
ever ignorance  or  knowledge  you  may  afterward 
chance  to  suffer,  you  will  remember  these  fine, 
wild  views,  and  look  back  with  joy  to  your  wan- 
derings in  the  blessed  old  Yellowstone  Wonder- 
land. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

OF  all  the  mountain  ranges  I  have  climbed,  I 
like  the  Sierra  Nevada  the  best.  Though  ex- 
tremely rugged,  with  its  main  features  on  the 
grandest  scale  in  height  and  depth,  it  is  never- 
theless easy  of  access  and  hospitable ;  and  its 
marvelous  beauty,  displayed  in  striking  and  al- 
luring forms,  wooes  the  admiring  wanderer  on 
and  on,  higher  and  higher,  charmed  and  en- 
chanted. Benevolent,  solemn,  fateful,  pervaded 
with  divine  light,  every  landscape  glows  like  a 
countenance  hallowed  in  eternal  repose ;  and 
every  one  of  its  living  creatures,  clad  in  flesh 
and  leaves,  and  every  crystal  of  its  rocks,  whether 
on  the  surface  shining  in  the  sun  or  buried  miles 
deep  in  what  we  call  darkness,  is  throbbing  and 
pulsing  with  the  heartbeats  of  God.  All  the 
world  lies  warm  in  one  heart,  yet  the  Sierra 
seems  to  get  more  light  than  other  mountains. 
The  weather  is  mostly  sunshine  embellished  with 
magnificent  storms,  and  nearly  everything  shines 
from  base  to  summit,  —  the  rocks,  streams,  lakes, 
glaciers,  irised  falls,  and  the  forests  of  silver  fir 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  77 

and  silver  pine.  And  how  bright  is  the  shining 
after  summer  showers  and  dewy  nights,  and  after 
frosty  nights  in  spring  and  autumn,  when  the 
morning  sunbeams  are  pouring  through  the 
crystals  on  the  bushes  and  grass,  and  in  winter 
through  the  snow-laden  trees ! 

The  average  cloudiness  for  the  whole  year  is 
perhaps  less  than  ten  hundredths.  Scarcely  a 
day  of  all  the  summer  is  dark,  though  there  is 
no  lack  of  magnificent  thundering  cumuli.  They 
rise  in  the  warm  midday  hours,  mostly  over  the 
middle  region,  in  June  and  July,  like  new  moun- 
tain ranges,  higher  Sierras,  mightily  augmenting 
the  grandeur  of  the  scenery  while  giving  rain  to 
the  forests  and  gardens  and  bringing  forth  their 
fragrance.  The  wonderful  weather  and  beauty 
inspire  everybody  to  be  up  and  doing.  Every 
summer  day  is  a  workday  to  be  confidently 
counted  on,  the  short  dashes  of  rain  forming, 
not  interruptions,  but  rests.  The  big  blessed 
storm  days  of  winter,  when  the  whole  range 
stands  white,  are  not  a  whit  less  inspiring  and 
kind.  Well  may  the  Sierra  be  called  the  Range 
of  Light,  not  the  Snowy  Range;  for  only  in 
winter  is  it  white,  while  all  the  year  it  is  bright. 

Of  this  glorious  range  the  Yosemite  National 
Park  is  a  central  section,  thirty-six  miles  in 
length  and  forty-eight  miles  in  breadth.  The 
famous  Yosemite  Valley  lies  in  the  heart  of  it, 
and  it  includes  the  head  waters  of  the  Tuolumne 


78  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  Merced  rivers,  two  of  the  most  songful 
streams  in  the  world;  innumerable  lakes  and 
waterfalls  and  smooth  silky  lawns ;  the  noblest 
forests,  the  loftiest  granite  domes,  the  deepest 
ice-sculptured  canons,  the  brightest  crystalline 
pavements,  and  snowy  mountains  soaring  into 
the  sky  twelve  and  thirteen  thousand  feet,  ar- 
rayed in  open  ranks  and  spiry  pinnacled  groups 
partially  separated  by  tremendous  canons  and 
amphitheatres;  gardens  on  their  sunny  brows, 
avalanches  thundering  down  their  long  white 
slopes,  cataracts  roaring  gray  and  foaming  in 
the  crooked  rugged  gorges,  and  glaciers  in  their 
shadowy  recesses  working  in  silence,  slowly  com- 
pleting their  sculpture ;  new-born  lakes  at  their 
feet,  blue  and  green,  free  or  encumbered  with 
drifting  icebergs  like  miniature  Arctic  Oceans, 
shining,  sparkling,  calm  as  stars. 

Nowhere  will  you  see  the  majestic  operations 
of  nature  more  clearly  revealed  beside  the  frail- 
est, most  gentle  and  peaceful  things.  Nearly 
all  the  park  is  a  profound  solitude.  Yet  it  is 
full  of  charming  company,  full  of  God's  thoughts, 
a  place  of  peace  and  safety  amid  the  most  exalted 
grandeur  and  eager  enthusiastic  action,  a  new 
song,  a  place  of  beginnings  abounding  in  first 
lessons  on  life,  mountain-building,  eternal,  invin- 
cible, unbreakable  order ;  with  sermons  in  stones, 
storms,  trees,  flowers,  and  animals  brimful  of 
humanity.  During  the  last  glacial  period^  just 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  79 

past,  the  former  features  of  the  range  were  rub- 
bed off  as  a  chalk  sketch  from  a  blackboard,  and 
a  new  beginning  was  made.  Hence  the  wonder- 
ful clearness  and  freshness  of  the  rocky  pages. 

But  to  get  all  this  into  words  is  a  hopeless 
task.  The  leanest  sketch  of  each  feature  would 
need  a  whole  chapter.  Nor  would  any  amount 
of  space,  however  industriously  scribbled,  be  of 
much  avail.  To  defrauded  town  toilers,  parks  in 
magazine  articles  are  like  pictures  of  bread  to  the 
hungry.  I  can  write  only  hints  to  incite  good 
wanderers  to  come  to  the  feast. 

While  this  glorious  park  embraces  big,  gener- 
ous samples  of  the  very  best  of  the  Sierra  trea- 
sures, it  is,  fortunately,  at  the  same  time,  the 
most  accessible  portion.  It  lies  opposite  San 
Francisco,  at  a  distance  of  about  one  hundred 
and  forty  miles.  Railroads  connected  with  all 
the  continent  reach  into  the  foothills,  and 
three  good  carriage  roads,  from  Big  Oak  Flat, 
Coulterville,  and  Raymond,  run  into  Yosemite 
Valley.  Another,  called  the  Tioga  road,  runs 
from  Crocker's  Station  on  the  Yosemite  Big  Oak 
Flat  road  near  the  Tuolumne  Big  Tree  Grove, 
right  across  the  park  to  the  summit  of  the  range 
by  way  of  Lake  Tenaya,  the  Big  Tuolumne 
Meadows,  and  Mount  Dana.  These  roads,  with 
many  trails  that  radiate  from  Yosemite  Valley, 
bring  most  of  the  park  within  reach  of  every- 
body, well  or  half  well. 


80  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  three  main  natural  divisions  of  the  park, 
the  lower,  middle,  and  alpine  regions,  are  fairly 
well  defined  in  altitude,  topographical  features, 
and  vegetation.  The  lower,  with  an  average 
elevation  of  about  five  thousand  feet,  is  the 
region  of  the  great  forests,  made  up  of  sugar 
pine,  the  largest  and  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
pines  in  the  world ;  the  silvery  yellow  pine,  the 
next  in  rank;  Douglas  spruce,  libocedrus,  the 
white  and  red  silver  firs,  and  the  Sequoia  gi- 
gantea,  or  "  big  tree,"  the  king  of  conifers,  the 
noblest  of  a  noble  race.  On  warm  slopes  next 
the  foothills  there  are  a  few  Sabine  nut  pines ; 
oaks  make  beautiful  groves  in  the  canon  valleys ; 
and  poplar,  alder,  maple,  laurel,  and  Nuttall's 
flowering  dogwood  shade  the  banks  of  the 
streams.  Many  of  the  pines  are  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  high,  but  they  are  not  crowded  to- 
gether. The  sunbeams  streaming  through  their 
feathery  arches  brighten  the  ground,  and  you 
walk  beneath  the  radiant  ceiling  in  devout  sub- 
dued mood,  as  if  you  were  in  a  grand  cathedral 
with  mellow  light  sifting  through  colored  win- 
dows, while  the  flowery  pillared  aisles  open  en- 
chanting vistas  in  every  direction.  Scarcely  a 
peak  or  ridge  in  the  whole  region  rises  bare 
above  the  forests,  though  they  are  thinly  planted 
in  some  places  where  the  soil  is  shallow.  From 
the  cool  breezy  heights  you  look  abroad  over  a 
boundless  waving  sea  of  evergreens,  covering 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  81 

hill  and  ridge  and  smooth-flowing  slope  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  and  filling  every  hollow  and 
down-plunging  ravine  in  glorious  triumphant 
exuberance. 

Perhaps  the  best  general  view  of  the  pine 
forests  of  the  park,  and  one  of  the  best  in  the 
range,  is  obtained  from  the  top  of  the  Merced 
and  Tuolumne  divide  near  Hazel  Green.  On 
the  long,  smooth,  finely  folded  slopes  of  the 
main  ridge,  at  a  height  of  five  to  six  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  they  reach  most  perfect  devel- 
opment and  are  marshaled  to  view  in  magni- 
ficent towering  ranks,  their  colossal  spires  and 
domes  and  broad  palmlike  crowns,  deep  in  the 
kind  sky,  rising  above  one  another,  —  a  multi- 
tude of  giants  in  perfect  health  and  beauty,  — ' 
sun-fed  mountaineers  rejoicing  in  their  strength, 
chanting  with  the  winds,  in  accord  with  the  fall- 
ing waters.  The  ground  is  mostly  open  and  in- 
viting to  walkers.  The  fragrant  chamsebatia  is 
outspread  in  rich  carpets  miles  in  extent;  the 
manzanita,  in  orchard-like  groves,  covered  with 
pink  bell-shaped  flowers  in  the  spring,  grows  in 
openings  facing  the  sun,  hazel  and  buckthorn  in 
the  dells ;  warm  brows  are  purple  with  mint, 
yellow  with  sunflowers  and  violets  ;  and  taU  lilies 
ring  their  bells  around  the  borders  of  meadows 
and  along  the  ferny,  mossy  banks  of  the  streams. 
Never  was  mountain  forest  more  lavishly  fur- 
nished. 


82  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Hazel  Green  is  a  good  place  quietly  to  camp 
and  study,  to  get  acquainted  with  the  trees  and 
birds,  to  drink  the  reviving  water  and  weather, 
and  to  watch  the  changing  lights  of  the  big 
charmed  days.  The  rose  light  of  the  dawn, 
creeping  higher  among  the  stars,  changes  to  daf- 
fodil yellow ;  then  come  the  level  enthusiastic 
sunbeams  pouring  across  the  feathery  ridges, 
touching  pine  after  pine,  spruce  and  fir,  liboce- 
drus  and  lordly  sequoia,  searching  every  recess, 
until  all  are  awakened  and  warmed.  In  the 
white  noon  they  shine  in  silvery  splendor,  every 
needle  and  cell  in  bole  and  branch  thrilling  and 
tingling  with  ardent  lif e ;  and  the  whole  land- 
scape glows  with  consciousness,  like  the  face  of 
a  god.  The  hours  go  by  uncounted.  The  even- 
ing flames  with  purple  and  gold.  The  breeze 
that  has  been  blowing  from  the  lowlands  dies 
away,  and  far  and  near  the  mighty  host  of  trees 
baptized  in  the  purple  flood  stand  hushed  and 
thoughtful,  awaiting  the  sun's  blessing  and  fare- 
well, —  as  impressive  a  ceremony  as  if  it  were 
never  to  rise  again.  When  the  daylight  fades, 
the  night  breeze  from  the  snowy  summits  begins 
to  blow,  and  the  trees,  waving  and  rustling 
beneath  the  stars,  breathe  free  again. 

It  is  hard  to  leave  such  camps  and  woods ; 
nevertheless,  to  the"  large  majority  of  travelers 
the  middle  region  of  the  park  is  still  more  in- 
teresting, for  it  has  the  most  striking  features  of 


A^PV 

. 

u 

THE  YOSEMITE  X^TIONAL  PARK  83 

^^^"  : '     ' '  a^^*j*^ 

all  the  Sierra  scenery,  —  the  deepest  sections  of 
the  famous  canons,  of  which  the  Yosemite  Val- 
ley, Hetch-Hetchy  Valley,  and  many  smaller 
ones  are  wider  portions,  with  level  parklike  floors 
and  walls  of  immense  height  and  grandeur  of 
sculpture.  This  middle  region  holds  also  the 
greater  number  of  the  beautiful  glacier  lakes 
and  glacier  meadows,  the  great  granite  domes, 
and  the  most  brilliant  and  most  extensive  of  the 
glacier  pavements.  And  though  in  large  part  it 
is  severely  rocky  and  bare,  it  is  still  rich  in  trees. 
The  magnificent  silver  fir  (Abies  magnified), 
which  ranks  with  the  giants,  forms  a  continuous 
belt  across  the  park  above  the  pines  at  an  eleva- 
tion of  from  seven  to  nine  thousand  feet,  and 
north  and  south  of  the  park  boundaries  to  the 
extremities  of  the  range,  only  slightly  interrupted 
by  the  main  canons.  The  two-leaved  or  tama- 
rack pine  makes  another  less  regular  belt  along 
the  upper  margin  of  the  region,  while  between 
these  two  belts,  and  mingling  with  them,  in 
groves  or  scattered,  are  the  mountain  hemlock, 
the  most  graceful  of  evergreens ;  the  noble 
mountain  pine ;  the  Jeffrey  form  of  the  yellow 
pine,  with  big  cones  and  long  needles ;  and  the 
brown,  burly,  sturdy  Western  juniper.  All  these, 
except  the  juniper,  which  grows  on  bald  rocks, 
have  plenty  of  flowery  brush  about  them,  and 
gardens  in  open  spaces. 

Here,  too,  lies   the  broad,   shining,   heavily 


84  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

sculptured  region  of  primeval  granite,  which 
best  tells  the  story  of  the  glacial  period  on  the 
Pacific  side  of  the  continent.  No  other  moun- 
tain chain  on  the  globe,  as  far  as  I  know,  is  so 
rich  as  the  Sierra  in  bold,  striking,  well-preserved 
glacial  monuments,  easily  understood  by  any- 
body capable  of  patient  observation.  Every  fea- 
ture is  more  or  less  glacial,  and  this  park  portion 
of  the  range  is  the  brightest  and  clearest  of  all. 
Not  a  peak,  ridge,  dome,  canon,  lake  basin,  gar- 
den, forest,  or  stream  but  in  some  way  explains 
the  past  existence  and  modes  of  action  of  flow- 
ing, grinding,  sculpturing,  soil-making,  scenery- 
making  ice.  For,  notwithstanding  the  post- 
glacial agents  —  air,  rain,  frost,  rivers,  earth- 
quakes, avalanches  —  have  been  at  work  upon 
the  greater  part  of  the  range  for  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  stormy  years,  engraving  their  own 
characters  over  those  of  the  ice,  the  latter  are  so 
heavily  emphasized  and  enduring  they  still  rise 
in  sublime  relief,  clear  and  legible  through  every 
after  inscription.  The  streams  have  traced  only 
shallow  wrinkles  as  yet,  and  avalanche,  wind, 
rain,  and  melting  snow  have  made  blurs  and 
scars,  but  the  change  effected  on  the  face  of  the 
landscape  is  not  greater  than  is  made  on  the  face 
of  a  mountaineer  by  a  single  year  of  weathering. 
Of  all  the  glacial  phenomena  presented  here, 
the  most  striking  and  attractive  to  travelers  are 
the  polished  pavements,  because  they  are  so 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  85 

beautiful,  and  their  beauty  is  of  so  rare  a  kind, 
—  unlike  any  part  of  the  loose  earthy  lowlands 
where  people  dwell  and  earn  their  bread.  They 
are  simply  flat  or  gently  undulating  areas  of 
solid  resisting  granite,  the  unchanged  surface 
over  which  the  ancient  glaciers  flowed.  They 
are  found  in  the  most  perfect  condition  at  an  ele- 
vation of  from  eight  to  nine  thousand  feet  above 
sea  level.  Some  are  miles  in  extent,  only  slightly 
blurred  or  scarred  by  spots  that  have  at  last 
yielded  to  the  weather  ;  while  the  best  preserved 
portions  are  brilliantly  polished,  and  reflect  the 
sunbeams  as  calm  water  or  glass,  shining  as  if 
rubbed  and  burnished  every  day,  notwithstand- 
ing they  have  been  exposed  to  plashing,  corrod- 
ing rains,  dew,  frost,  and  melting  sloppy  snows 
for  thousands  of  years. 

The  attention  of  hunters  and  prospectors,  who 
see  so  much  in  their  wild  journeys,  is  seldom  at- 
tracted by  moraines,  however  regular  and  arti- 
ficial-looking ;  or  rocks,  however  boldly  sculp- 
tured ;  or  canons,  however  deep  and  sheer-walled. 
But  when  they  come  to  these  pavements,  they 
go  down  on  their  knees  and  rub  their  hands  ad- 
miringly on  the  glistening  surface,  and  try  hard 
to  account  for  its  mysterious  smoothness  and 
brightness.  They  may  have  seen  the  winter 
avalanches  come  down  the  mountains,  through 
the  woods,  sweeping  away  the  trees  and  scour- 
ing the  ground ;  but  they  conclude  that  this 


86  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

cannot  be  the  work  of  avalanches,  because  the 
striae  show  that  the  agent,  whatever  it  was,  flowed 
along  and  around  and  over  the  top  of  high  ridges 
and  domes,  and  also  filled  the  deep  canons. 
Neither  can  they  see  how  water  could  be  the 
agent,  for  the  strange  polish  is  found  thousands 
of  feet  above  the  reach  of  any  conceivable  flood. 
Only  the  winds  seem  capable  of  moving  over  the 
face  of  the  country  in  the  directions  indicated  by 
the  lines  and  grooves. 

The  pavements  are  particularly  fine  around 
Lake  Tenaya,  and  have  suggested  the  Indian 
name  Py-we-ack,  the  Lake  of  the  Shining  Rocks. 
Indians  seldom  trouble  themselves  with  geologi- 
cal questions,  but  a  Mono  Indian  once  came  to 
me  and  asked  if  I  could  tell  him  what  made  the 
rocks  so  smooth  at  Tenaya.  Even  dogs  and 
horses,  on  their  first  journeys  into  this  region, 
study  geology  to  the  extent  of  gazing  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  strange  brightness  of  the  ground, 
and  pawing  it  and  smelling  it,  as  if  afraid  of 
falling  or  sinking. 

In  the  production  of  this  admirable  hard  finish, 
the  glaciers  in  many  places  exerted  a  pressure  of 
more  than  a  hundred  tons  to  the  square  foot, 
planing  down  granite,  slate,  and  quartz  alike, 
showing  their  structure,  and  making  beautiful 
mosaics  where  large  feldspar  crystals  form  the 
greater  part  of  the  rock.  On  such  pavements 
the  sunshine  is  at  times  dazzling,  as  if  the  sur- 
face were  of  burnished  silver. 


. 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  87 

Here,  also,  are  the  brightest  of  the  Sierra 
landscapes  in  general.  The  regions  lying  at 
the  same  elevation  to  the  north  and  south  were 
perhaps  subjected  to  as  long  and  intense  a  gla- 
ciation ;  but  because  the  rocks  are  less  resisting, 
their  polished  surfaces  have  mostly  given  way  to 
the  weather,  leaving  here  and  there  only  small 
imperfect  patches  on  the  most  enduring  portions 
of  canon  walls  protected  from  the  action  of  rain 
and  snow,  and  on  hard  bosses  kept  comparatively 
dry  by  boulders.  The  short,  steeply  inclined 
canons  of  the  east  flank  of  the  range  are  in  some 
places  brightly  polished,  but  they  are  far  less 
magnificent  than  those  of  the  broad  west  flank. 

One  of  the  best  general  views  of  the  middle 
region  of  the  park  is  to  be  had  from  the  top  of 
a  majestic  dome  which  long  ago  I  named  the 
Glacier  Monument.  It  is  situated  a  few  miles 
to  the  north  of  Cathedral  Peak,  and  rises  to  a 
height  of  about  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  its 
base  and  ten  thousand  above  the  sea.  At  first 
sight  it  seems  sternly  inaccessible,  but  a  good 
climber  will  find  that  it  may  be  scaled  on  the 
south  side.  Approaching  it  from  this  side  you 
pass  through  a  dense  bryanthus-fringed  grove  of 
mountain  hemlock,  catching  glimpses  now  and 
then  of  the  colossal  dome  towering  to  an  immense 
height  above  the  dark  evergreens  ;  and  when  at 
last  you  have  made  your  way  across  woods,  wad- 
ing through  azalea  and  ledum  thickets,  you  step 
abruptly  out  of  the  tree  shadows  and  mossy 


88  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

leafy  softness  upon  a  bare  porphyry  pavement, 
and  behold  the  dome  unveiled  in  all  its  grandeur. 
Fancy  a  nicely  proportioned  monument,  eight  or 
ten  feet  high,  hewn  from  one  stone,  standing  in 
a  pleasure  ground ;  magnify  it  to  a  height  of 
fifteen  hundred  feet,  retaining  its  simplicity  of 
form  and  fineness,  and  cover  its  surface  with 
crystals  ;  then  you  may  gain  an  idea  of  the  sub- 
limity and  beauty  of  this  ice-burnished  dome,  one 
of  many  adorning  this  wonderful  park. 

In  making  the  ascent,  one  finds  that  the  curve 
of  the  base  rapidly  steepens,  until  one  is  in 
danger  of  slipping  ;  but  feldspar  crystals,  two  or 
three  inches  long,  that  have  been  weathered  into 
relief,  afford  slight  footholds.  The  summit  is 
in  part  burnished,  like  the  sides  and  base,  the 
striae  and  scratches  indicating  that  the  mighty 
Tuolumne  Glacier,  two  or  three  thousand  feet 
deep,  overwhelmed  it  while  it  stood  firm  like  a 
boulder  at  the  bottom  of  a  river.  The  pres- 
sure it  withstood  must  have  been  enormous. 
Had  it  been  less  solidly  built,  it  would  have  been 
ground  and  crushed  into  moraine  fragments,  like 
the  general  mass  of  the  mountain  flank  in  which 
at  first  it  lay  imbedded ;  for  it  is  only  a  hard  re- 
sidual knob  or  knot  with  a  concentric  structure 
of  superior  strength,  brought  into  relief  by  the 
removal  of  the  less  resisting  rock  about  it,  —  an 
illustration  in  stone  of  the  survival  of  the  strong- 
est and  most  favorably  situated. 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  89 

Hardly  less  wonderful,  when  we  contemplate 
the  storms  it  has  encountered  since  first  it  saw 
the  light,  is  its  present  unwasted  condition.  The 
whole  quantity  of  postglacial  wear  and  tear  it 
has  suffered  has  not  diminished  its  stature  a  sin- 
gle inch,  as  may  be  readily  shown  by  measuring 
from  the  level  of  the  unchanged  polished  por- 
tions of  the  surface.  Indeed,  the  average  post- 
glacial denudation  of  the  entire  region,  measured 
in  the  same  way,  is  found  to  be  less  than  two 
inches,  —  a  mighty  contrast  to  that  of  the  ice  ; 
for  the  glacial  denudation  here  has  been  not  less 
than  a  mile ;  that  is,  in  developing  the  present 
landscapes,  an  amount  of  rock  a  mile  in  average 
thickness  has  been  silently  carried  away  by  flow- 
ing ice  during  the  last  glacial  period. 

A  few  erratic  boulders  nicely  poised  on  the 
rounded  summit  of  the  monument  tell  an  inter- 
esting story.  They  came  from  a  mountain  on 
the  crest  of  the  range,  about  twelve  miles  to  the 
eastward,  floating  like  chips  on  the  frozen  sea, 
and  were  stranded  here  when  the  top  of  the 
monument  emerged  to  the  light  of  day,  while  the 
companions  of  these  boulders,  whose  positions 
chanced  to  be  over  the  slopes  where  they  could 
not  find  rest,  were  carried  farther  on  by  the  shal- 
lowing current. 

The  general  view  from  the  summit  consists 
of  a  sublime  assemblage  of  iceborn  mountains 
and  rocks  and  long  wavering  ridges,  lakes  and 


90  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

streams  and  meadows,  moraines  in  wide-sweeping 
belts,  and  beds  covered  and  dotted  with  forests 
and  groves,  —  hundreds  of  square  miles  of  them 
composed  in  wild  harmony.  The  snowy  moun- 
tains on  the  axis  of  the  range,  mostly  sharp- 
peaked  and  crested,  rise  in  noble  array  along  the 
sky  to  the  eastward  and  northward ;  the  gray- 
pillared  Hoffman  spur  and  the  Yosemite  domes 
and  a  countless  number  of  others  to  the  west- 
ward ;  Cathedral  Peak  with  its  many  spires  and 
companion  peaks  and  domes  to  the  southward ; 
and  a  smooth  billowy  multitude  of  rocks,  from 
fifty  feet  or  less  to  a  thousand  feet  high,  which 
from  their  peculiar  form  seem  to  be  rolling  on 
westward,  fill  most  of  the  middle  ground.  Im- 
mediately beneath  you  are  the  Big  Tuolumne 
Meadows,  with  an  ample  swath  of  dark  pine 
woods  on  either  side,  enlivened  by  the  young 
river,  that  is  seen  sparkling  and  shimmering  as 
it  sways  from  side  to  side,  tracing  as  best  it  can 
its  broad  glacial  channel. 

The  ancient  Tuolumne  Glacier,  lavishly  flooded 
by  many  a  noble  affluent  from  the  snow-laden 
flanks  of  Mounts  Dana,  Gibbs,  Lyell,  Maclure, 
and  others  nameless  as  yet,  poured  its  majes- 
tic overflowing  current,  four  or  five  miles  wide, 
directly  against  the  high  outstanding  mass  of 
Mount  Hoffman,  which  divided  and  deflected  it 
right  and  left,  just  as  a  river  is  divided  against 
an  island  that  stands  in  the  middle  of  its  chan- 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  91 

nel.  Two  distinct  glaciers  were  thus  formed, 
one  of  which  flowed  through  the  Big  Tuolumne 
Canon  and  Hetch-Hetchy  Valley,  while  the  other 
swept  upward  five  hundred  feet  in  a  hroad  cur- 
rent across  the  divide  between  the  basins  of  the 
Tuolumne  and  Merced  into  the  Tenaya  basin, 
and  thence  down  through  the  Tenaya  Canon  and 
Yosemite  Valley. 

The  maplike  distinctness  and  freshness  of  this 
glacial  landscape  cannot  fail  to  excite  the  atten- 
tion of  every  observer,  no  matter  how  little  of 
its  scientific  significance  he  may  at  first  recognize. 
These  bald,  glossy,  westward-leaning  rocks  in 
the  open  middle  ground,  with  their  rounded 
backs  and  shoulders  toward  the  glacier  fountains 
of  the  summit  mountains  and  their  split  angular 
fronts  looking  in  the  opposite  direction,  every 
one  of  them  displaying  the  form  of  greatest 
strength  with  reference  to  physical  structure  and 
glacial  action,  show  the  tremendous  force  with 
which  through  unnumbered  centuries  the  ice 
flood  swept  over  them,  and  also  the  direction  of 
the  flow ;  while  the  mountains,  with  their  sharp 
summits  and  abraded  sides,  indicate  the  height 
to  which  the  glacier  rose ;  and  the  moraines, 
curving  and  swaying  in  beautiful  lines,  mark  the 
boundaries  of  the  main  trunk  and  its  tributaries 
as  they  existed  toward  the  close  of  the  glacial 
winter.  None  of  the  commercial  highways  of 
the  sea  or  land,  marked  with  buoys  and  lamps, 


92  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

fences  and  guideboards,  is  so  unmistakably  indi- 
cated as  are  these  channels  of  the  vanished  Tuo- 
lumne  glaciers. 

The  action  of  flowing  ice,  whether  in  the  form 
of  river-like  glaciers  or  broad  mantling  folds,  is 
but  little  understood  as  compared  with  that  of 
other  sculpturing  agents.  Eivers  work  openly 
where  people  dwell,  and  so  do  the  rain,  and  the 
sea  thundering  on  all  the  shores  of  the  world ; 
and  the  universal  ocean  of  air,  though  unseen, 
speaks  aloud  in  a  thousand  voices  and  explains 
its  modes  of  working  and  its  power.  But  gla- 
ciers, back  in  their  cold  solitudes,  work  apart  from 
men,  exerting  their  tremendous  energies  in  silence 
and  darkness.  Coming  in  vapor  from  the  sea, 
flying  invisible  on  the  wind,  descending  in  snow, 
changing  to  ice,  white,  spiritlike,  they  brood  out- 
spread over  the  predestined  landscapes,  working 
on  unwearied  through  unmeasured  ages,  until  in 
the  fullness  of  time  the  mountains  and  valleys  are 
brought  forth,  channels  furrowed  for  the  rivers, 
basins  made  for  meadows  and  lakes,  and  soil 
beds  spread  for  the  forests  and  fields  that  man 
and  beast  may  be  fed.  Then  vanishing  like 
clouds,  they  melt  into  streams  and  go  singing 
back  home  to  the  sea. 

To  an  observer  upon  this  adamantine  old  mon- 
ument in  the  midst  of  such  scenery,  getting 
glimpses  of  the  thoughts  of  God,  the  day  seems 
endless,  the  sun  stands  still.  Much  faithless  fuss 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  93 

is  made  over  the  passage  in  the  Bible  telling  of  the 
standing  still  of  the  sun  for  Joshua.  Here  you 
may  learn  that  the  miracle  occurs  for  every  de- 
vout mountaineer,  for  everybody  doing  anything 
worth  doing,  seeing  anything  worth  seeing.  One 
day  is  as  a  thousand  years,  a  thousand  years  as 
one  day,  and  while  yet  in  the  flesh  you  enjoy 
immortality. 

From  the  monument  you  will  find  an  easy  way 
down  through  the  woods  and  along  the  Big 
Tuolumne  Meadows  to  Mount  Dana,  the  summit 
of  which  commands  a  grand  telling  view  of  the 
alpine  region.  The  scenery  all  the  way  is  in- 
spiring, and  you  saunter  on  without  knowing 
that  you  are  climbing.  The  spacious  sunny 
meadows,  through  the  midst  of  which  the  bright 
river  glides,  extend  with  but  little  interruption 
ten  miles  to  the  eastward,  dark  woods  rising 
on  either  side  to  the  limit  of  tree  growth,  and 
above  the  woods  a  picturesque  line  of  gray  peaks 
and  spires  dotted  with  snow  banks ;  while,  on  the 
axis  of  the  Sierra,  Mount  Dana  and  his  noble 
compeers  repose  in  massive  sublimity,  their  vast 
size  and  simple  flowing  contours  contrasting  in 
the  most  striking  manner  with  the  clustering 
spires  and  thin-pinnacled  crests  crisply  outlined 
on  the  horizon  to  the  north  and  south  of  them. 

Tracing  the  silky  lawns,  gradually  ascending, 
gazing  at  the  sublime  scenery  more  and  more 
openly  unfolded,  noting  the  avalanche  gaps  in 


94  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  upper  forests,  lingering  over  beds  of  blue 
gentians  and  purple-flowered  bryanthus  and  cas- 
siope,  and  dwarf  willows  an  inch  high  in  close- 
felted  gray  carpets,  brightened  here  and  there 
with  kalmia  and  soft  creeping  mats  of  vaccinium 
sprinkled  with  pink  bells  that  seem  to  have  been 
showered  down  from  the  sky  like  hail,  —  thus 
beguiled  and  enchanted,  you  reach  the  base  of 
the  mountain  wholly  unconscious  of  the  miles 
you  have  walked.  And  so  on  to  the  summit. 
For  all  the  way  up  the  long  red  slate  slopes,  that 
in  the  distance  seemed  barren,  you  find  little  gar- 
den beds  and  tufts  of  dwarf 'phlox,  ivesia,  and 
blue  arctic  daisies  that  go  straight  to  your  heart, 
blessed  fellow  mountaineers  kept  safe  and  warm 
by  a  thousand  miracles.  You  are  now  more  than 
thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  to  the 
north  and  south  you  behold  a  sublime  wilderness 
of  mountains  in  glorious  array,  their  snowy  sum- 
mits towering  together  in  crowded,  bewildering 
abundance,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  peak  beyond 
peak.  To  the  east  lies  the  Great  Basin,  barren- 
looking  and  silent,  apparently  a  land  of  pure 
desolation,  rich  only  in  beautiful  light.  Mono 
Lake,  fourteen  miles  long,  is  outspread  below 
you  at  a  depth  of  nearly  seven  thousand  feet,  its 
shores  of  volcanic  ashes  and  sand,  treeless  and 
sunburned ;  a  group  of  volcanic  cones,  with 
well-formed,  unwasted  craters  rises  to  the  south 
of  the  lake  ;  while  up  from  its  eastern  shore  in- 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PAEK  95 

numerable  mountains  with  soft  flowing  outlines 
extend  range  beyond  range,  gray,  and  pale  purple, 
and  blue,  —  the  farthest  gradually  fading  on  the 
glowing  horizon.  Westward  you  look  down  and 
over  the  countless  moraines,  glacier  meadows, 
and  grand  sea  of  domes  and  rock  waves  of  the 
upper  Tuolumne  basin,  the  Cathedral  and  Hoff- 
man mountains  with  their  wavering  lines  and 
zones  of  forest,  the  wonderful  region  to  the  north 
of  the  Tuolumne  Canon,  and  across  the  dark  belt 
of  silver  firs  to  the  pale  mountains  of  the  coast. 

In  the  icy  fountains  of  the  Mount  Lyell  and 
Ritter  groups  of  peaks,  to  the  south  of  Dana, 
three  of  the  most  important  of  the  Sierra  rivers 
—  the  Tuolumne,  Merced,  and  San  Joaquin  — 
take  their  rise,  their  highest  tributaries  being 
within  a  few  miles  of  one  another  as  they  rush 
forth  on  their  adventurous  courses  from  beneath 
snow  banks  and  glaciers. 

Of  the  small  shrinking  glaciers  of  the  Sierra, 
remnants  of  the  majestic  system  that  sculptured 
the  range,  I  have  seen  sixty-five.  About  twenty- 
five  of  them  are  in  the  park,  and  eight  are  in 
sight  from  Mount  Dana. 

The  glacier  lakes  are  sprinkled  over  all  the 
alpine  and  subalpine  regions,  gleaming  like  eyes 
beneath  heavy  rock  brows,  tree-fringed  or  bare, 
embosomed  in  the  woods,  or  lying  in  open  basins 
with  green  and  purple  meadows  around  them; 
but  the  greater  number  are  in  the  cool  shadowy 


96  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

hollows  of  the  summit  mountains  not  far  from 
the  glaciers,  the  highest  lying  at  an  elevation  of 
from  eleven  to  nearly  twelve  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea.  The  whole  number  in  the  Sierra,  not 
counting  the  smallest,  can  hardly  be  less  than 
fifteen  hundred,  of  which  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  are  in  the  park.  From  one  standpoint, 
on  Red  Mountain,  I  counted  forty-two,  most  of 
them  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles.  The  glacier 
meadows,  which  are  spread  over  the  filled-up 
basins  of  vanished  lakes  and  form  one  of  the 
most  charming  features  of  the  scenery,  are  still 
more  numerous  than  the  lakes. 

An  observer  stationed  here,  in  the  glacial 
period,  would  have  overlooked  a  wrinkled  mantle 
of  ice  as  continuous  as  that  which  now  covers  the 
continent  of  Greenland;  and  of  all  the  vast 
landscape  now  shining  in  the  sun,  he  would 
have  seen  only  the  tops  of  the  summit  peaks, 
rising  darkly  like  storm-beaten  islands,  lifeless 
and  hopeless,  above  rock-encumbered  ice  waves. 
If  among  the  agents  that  nature  has  employed 
in  making  these  mountains  there  be  one  that 
above  all  others  deserves  the  name  of  Destroyer, 
it  is  the  glacier.  But  we  quickly  learn  that  de- 
struction is  creation.  During  the  dreary  centu- 
ries through  which  the  Sierra  lay  in  darkness, 
crushed  beneath  the  ice  folds  of  the  glacial  win- 
ter, there  was  a  steady  invincible  advance  toward 
the  warm  life  and  beauty  of  to-day;  and  it  is 


THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK  97 

just  where  the  glaciers  crushed  most  destructively 
that  the  greatest  amount  of  beauty  is  made  man- 
ifest. But  as  these  landscapes  have  succeeded 
the  preglacial  landscapes,  so  they  in  turn  are 
giving  place  to  others  already  planned  and  fore- 
seen. The  granite  domes  and  pavements,  appa- 
rently imperishable,  we  take  as  symbols  of 
permanence,  while  these  crumbling  peaks,  down 
whose  frosty  gullies  avalanches  are  ever  falling, 
are  symbols  of  change  and  decay.  Yet  all  alike, 
fast  or  slow,  are  surely  vanishing  away. 

Nature  is  ever  at  work  building  and  pulling 
down,  creating  and  destroying,  keeping  every- 
thing whirling  and  flowing,  allowing  no  rest  but 
in  rhythmical  motion,  chasing  everything  in  end- 
less song  out  of  one  beautiful  form  into  another. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

THE    FORESTS    OF   THE    YOSEMITE    PARK 

THE  coniferous  forests  of  the  Yosemite  Park, 
and  of  the  Sierra  in  general,  surpass  all  others 
of  their  kind  in  America  or  indeed  in  the  world, 
not  only  in  the  size  and  beauty  of  the  trees,  but 
in  the  number  of  species  assembled  together,  and 
the  grandeur  of  the  mountains  they  are  growing 
on.  Leaving  the  workaday  lowlands,  and  wan- 
dering into  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  we  find 
a  new  world,  and  stand  beside  the  majestic  pines 
and  firs  and  sequoias  silent  and  awestricken,  as 
if  in  the  presence  of  superior  beings  new  arrived 
from  some  other  star,  so  calm  and  bright  and 
godlike  they  are. 

Going  to  the  woods  is  going  home  ;  for  I  sup- 
pose we  came  from  the  woods  originally.  But 
in  some  of  nature's  forests  the  adventurous  trav- 
eler seems  a  feeble,  unwelcome  creature ;  wild 
beasts  and  the  weather  trying  to  kill  him,  the 
rank,  tangled  vegetation,  armed  with  spears  and 
stinging  needles,  barring  his  way  and  making 
life  a  hard  struggle.  Here  everything  is  hospi- 
table and  kind,  as  if  planned  for  your  pleasure, 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK     99 

ministering  to  every  want  of  body  and  soul. 
Even  the  storms  are  friendly  and  seem  to  regard 
you  as  a  brother,  their  beauty  and  tremendous 
fateful  earnestness  charming  alike.  But  the 
weather  is  mostly  sunshine,  both  winter  and 
summer,  and  the  clear  sunny  brightness  of  the 
park  is  one  of  its  most  striking  characteristics. 
Even  the  heaviest  portions  of  the  main  forest 
belt,  where  the  trees  are  tallest  and  stand  closest, 
are  not  in  the  least  gloomy.  The  sunshine  falls 
in  glory  through  the  colossal  spires  and  crowns, 
each  a  symbol  of  health  and  strength,  the  noble 
shafts  faithfully  upright  like  the  pillars  of 
temples,  upholding  a  roof  of  infinite  leafy  inter- 
lacing arches  and  fretted  skylights.  The  more 
open  portions  are  like  spacious  parks,  carpeted 
with  small  shrubs,  or  only  with  the  fallen  needles 
sprinkled  here  and  there  with  flowers.  In  some 
places,  where  the  ground  is  level  or  slopes  gently, 
the  trees  are  assembled  in  groves,  and  the  flow- 
ers and  underbrush  in  trim  beds  and  thickets  as 
in  landscape  gardens  or  the  lovingly  planted 
grounds  of  homes  ;  or  they  are  drawn  up  in  or- 
derly rows  around  meadows  and  lakes  and  along 
the  brows  of  canons.  But  in  general  the  forests 
are  distributed  in  wide  belts  in  accordance  with 
climate  and  the  comparative  strength  of  each 
kind  in  gaining  and  holding  possession  of  the 
ground,  while  anything  like  monotonous  uni- 
formity is  prevented  by  the  grandly  varied  topo- 


100  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

graphy,  and  by  the  arrangement  of  the  best  soil- 
beds  in  intricate  patterns  like  embroidery  ;  for 
these  soilbeds  are  the  moraines  of  ancient  glaciers 
more  or  less  modified  by  weathering  and  stream 
action,  and  the  trees  trace  them  over  the  hills 
and  ridges,  and  far  up  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains, rising  with  even  growth  on  levels,  and 
towering  above  one  another  on  the  long  rich 
slopes  prepared  for  them  by  the  vanished  gla- 
ciers. 

Had  the  Sierra  forests  been  cheaply  accessible, 
the  most  valuable  of  them  commercially  would 
ere  this  have  fallen  a  prey  to  the  lumberman. 
Thus  far  the  redwood  of  the  Coast  Mountains 
and  the  Douglas  spruce  of  Oregon  and  Wash- 
ington have  been  more  available  for  lumber 
than  the  pine  of  the  Sierra.  It  cost  less  to  go  a 
thousand  miles  up  the  coast  for  timber,  where 
the  trees  came  down  to  the  shores  of  navigable 
rivers  and  bays,  than  fifty  miles  up  the  moun- 
tains. Nevertheless,  the  superior  value  of  the 
sugar  pine  for  many  purposes  has  tempted  capi- 
talists to  expend  large  sums  on  flumes  and  rail- 
roads to  reach  the  best  forests,  though  perhaps 
none  of  these  enterprises  has  paid.  Fortunately, 
the  lately  established  system  of  parks  and  reser- 
vations has  put  a  stop  to  any  great  extension  of 
the  business  hereabouts  in  its  most  destructive 
forms.  And  as  the  Yosemite  Park  region  has 
escaped  the  millmen,  and  the  all-devouring 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    101 

hordes  of  hoofed  locusts  have  been  banished,  it 
is  still  in  the  main  a  pure  wilderness,  unbroken 
by  axe  clearings  except  on  the  lower  margin, 
where  a  few  settlers  have  opened  spots  beside 
hay  meadows  for  their  cabins  and  gardens.  But 
these  are  mere  dots  of  cultivation,  in  no  appre- 
ciable degree  disturbing  the  grand  solitude. 
Twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  a  good  many  trees 
were  felled  for  their  seeds ;  traces  of  this  de- 
structive method  of  seed-collecting  are  still  visible 
along  the  trails  ;  but  these  as  well  as  the  shingle* 
makers'  ruins  are  being  rapidly  overgrown,  the 
gardens  and  beds  of  underbrush  once  devastated 
by  sheep  are  blooming  again  in  all  their  wild 
glory,  and  the  park  is  a  paradise  that  makes 
even  the  loss  of  Eden  seem  insignificant. 

On  the  way  to  Yosemite  Valley,  you  get  some 
grand  views  over  the  forests  of  the  Merced  and 
Tuolumne  basins  and  glimpses  of  some  of  the 
finest  trees  by  the  roadside  without  leaving  your 
seat  in  the  stage.  But  to  learn  how  they  live 
and  behave  in  pure  wildness,  to  see  them  in 
their  varying  aspects  through  the  seasons  and 
weather,  rejoicing  in  the  great  storms,  in  the 
spiritual  mountain  light,  putting  forth  their  new 
leaves  and  flowers  when  all  the  streams  are  in 
flood  and  the  birds  are  singing,  and  sending 
away  their  seeds  in  the  thoughtful  Indian  sum- 
mer when  all  the  landscape  is  glowing  in  deep 
calm  enthusiasm,  —  for  this  you  must  love  them 


102  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  live  with  them,  as  free  from  schemes  and 
cares  and  time  as  the  trees  themselves. 

And  surely  nobody  will  find  anything  hard  in 
this.  Even  the  blind  must  enjoy  these  woods, 
drinking  their  fragrance,  listening  to  the  music 
of  the  winds  in  their  groves,  and  fingering  their 
flowers  and  plumes  and  cones  and  richly  fur- 
rowed boles.  The  kind  of  study  required  is  as 
easy  and  natural  as  breathing.  Without  any 
great  knowledge  of  botany  or  wood-craft,  in  a 
single  season  you  may  learn  the  name  and  some- 
thing more  of  nearly  every  kind  of  tree  in  the 
park. 

With  few  exceptions  all  the  Sierra  trees  are 
growing  in  the  park,  —  nine  species  of  pine,  two 
of  silver  fir,  one  each  of  Douglas  spruce,  liboce- 
drus,  hemlock,  juniper,  and  sequoia,  —  sixteen 
conifers  in  all,  and  about  the  same  number  of 
round-headed  trees,  oaks,  maples,  poplars,  laurel, 
alder,  dogwood,  tumion,  etc. 

The  first  of  the  conifers  you  meet  in  going  up 
the  range  from  the  west  is  the  digger  nut-pine 
(Pinus  Sabiniana),  a  remarkably  open,  airy, 
wide-branched  tree,  forty  to  sixty  feet  high,  with 
long,  sparse,  grayish  green  foliage  and  large 
cones.  At  a  height  of  fifteen  to  thirty  feet  from 
the  ground  the  trunk  usually  divides  into  several 
main  branches,  which,  after  bearing  away  from 
one  another,  shoot  straight  up  and  form  separate 
heads  as  if  the  axis  of  the  tree  had  been  broken, 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    103 

while  the  secondary  branches  divide  again  and 
again  into  rather  slender  sprays  loosely  tasseled, 
with  leaves  eight  to  twelve  inches  long.  The 
yellow  and  purple  flowers  are  about  an  inch  long, 
the  staminate  in  showy  clusters.  The  big,  rough, 
burly  cones,  five  to  eight  or  ten  inches  in  length 
and  five  or  six  in  diameter,  are  rich  brown  in 
color  when  ripe,  and  full  of  hard-shelled  nuts 
that  are  greatly  prized  by  Indians  and  squirrels. 
This  strange-looking  pine,  enjoying  hot  sunshine 
like  a  palm,  is  sparsely  distributed  along  the 
driest  part  of  the  Sierra  among  small  oaks  and 
chaparral,  and  with  its  gray  mist  of  foliage,  strong 
trunk  and  branches,  and  big  cones  seen  in  relief 
on  the  glowing  sky,  forms  the  most  striking 
feature  of  the  foothill  vegetation. 

Pinus  attenuata  is  a  small,  slender,  arrowy 
tree,  with  pale  green  leaves  in  threes,  clustered 
flowers  half  an  inch  long,  brownish  yellow  and 
crimson,  and  cones  whorled  in  conspicuous  clus- 
ters around  the  branches  and  also  around  the 
trunk.  The  cones  never  fall  off  or  open  until 
the  tree  dies.  They  are  about  four  inches  long, 
exceedingly  strong  and  solid,  and  varnished  with 
hard  resin  forming  a  waterproof  and  almost 
worm  and  squirrel  proof  package,  in  which  the 
seeds  are  kept  fresh  and  safe  during  the  lifetime 
of  the  tree.  Sometimes  one  of  the  trunk  cones 
is  overgrown  and  imbedded  in  the  heart  wood 
like  a  knot,  but  nearly  all  are  pushed  out  and 


104  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

kept  on  tlie  surface  by  the  pressure  of  the  suc- 
cessive layers  of  wood  against  the  base. 

This  admirable  little  tree  grows  on  brushy,  sun- 
beaten  slopes,  which  from  their  position  and  the 
inflammable  character  of  the  vegetation  are  most 
frequently  fire-swept.  These  grounds  it  is  able  to 
hold  against  all  comers,  however  big  and  strong, 
by  saving  its  seeds  until  death,  when  all  it  has  pro- 
duced are  scattered  over  the  bare  cleared  ground, 
and  a  new  generation  quickly  springs  out  of  the 
ashes.  Thus  the  curious  fact  that  all  the  trees 
of  extensive  groves  and  belts  are  of  the  same  age 
is  accounted  for,  and  their  slender  habit ;  for 
the  lavish  abundance  of  seed  sown  at  the  same 
time  makes  a  crowded  growth,  and  the  seedlings 
with  an  even  start  rush  up  in  a  hurried  race  for 
light  and  life. 

Only  a  few  of  the  attenuata  and  Sabiniana 
pines  are  within  the  boundaries  of  the  park,  the 
former  on  the  side  of  the  Merced  Canon,  the 
latter  on  the  walls  of  Hetch-Hetchy  Valley  and 
in  the  canon  below  it. 

The  nut-pine  (Pinus  monophylla)  is  a  small, 
hardy,  contented-looking  tree,  about  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet  high  and  a  foot  in  diameter.  In  its 
youth  the  close  radiating  and  aspiring  branches 
form  a  handsome  broad-based  pyramid,  but  when 
fully  grown  it  becomes  round-topped,  knotty, 
and  irregular,  throwing  out  crooked  divergent 
limbs  like  an  apple  tree.  The  leaves  are  pale 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    105 

grayish  green,  about  an  inch  and  a  half  long, 
and  instead  of  being  divided  into  clusters  they 
are  single,  round,  sharp-pointed,  and  rigid  like 
spikes,  amid  which  in  the  spring  the  red  flowers 
glow  brightly.  The  cones  are  only  about  two 
inches  in  length  and  breadth,  but  nearly  half 
of  their  bulk  is  made  up  of  sweet  nuts. 

This  fruitful  little  pine  grows  on  the  dry  east 
side  of  the  park,  along  the  margin  of  the  Mono 
sage  plain,  and  is  the  commonest  tree  of  the 
short  mountain  ranges  of  the  Great  Basin.  Tens 
of  thousands  of  acres  are  covered  with  it,  form- 
ing bountiful  orchards  for  the  Red-man.  Being 
so  low  and  accessible,  the  cones  are  easily  beaten 
off  with  poles,  and  the  nuts  procured  by  roasting 
until  the  scales  open.  To  the  tribes  of  the 
desert  and  sage  plains  these  seeds  are  the  staff  of 
life.  They  are  eaten  either  raw  or  parched,  or 
in  the  form  of  mush  or  cakes  after  being  pounded 
into  meal.  The  time  of  nut  harvest  in  the  autumn 
is  the  Indian's  merriest  time  of  all  the  year.  An 
industrious  squirrelish  family  can  gather  fifty  or 
sixty  bushels  in  a  single  month  before  the  snow 
comes,  and  then  their  bread  for  the  winter  is 
sure. 

The  white  pine  (Pinus  flexilis)  is  widely  dis- 
tributed through  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  the 
ranges  of  the  Great  Basin,  where  in  many  places 
it  grows  to  a  good  size,  and  is  an  important  tim- 
ber tree  where  none  better  is  to  be  found.  In 


106  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  park  it  is  sparsely  scattered  along  the  eastern 
flank  of  the  range  from  Mono  Pass  southward, 
above  the  nut-pine,  at  an  elevation  of  from  eight 
to  ten  thousand  feet,  dwarfing  to  a  tangled  bush 
near  the  timber-line,  but  under  favorable  condi- 
tions attaining  a  height  of  forty  or  fifty  feet, 
with  a  diameter  of  three  to  five.  The  long 
branches  show  a  tendency  to  sweep  out  in  bold 
curves,  like  those  of  the  mountain  and  sugar 
pines  to  which  it  is  closely  related.  The  needles 
are  in  clusters  of  five,  closely  packed  on  the 
ends  of  the  branchlets.  The  cones  are  about 
five  inches  long,  —  the  smaller  ones  nearly  oval, 
the  larger  cylindrical.  But  the  most  interesting 
feature  of  the  tree  is  its  bloom,  the  vivid  red 
pistillate  flowers  glowing  among  the  leaves  like 
coals  of  fire. 

The  dwarfed  pine  or  white-barked  pine  (Pinus 
albicaulis)  is  sure  to  interest  every  observer  on 
account  of  its  curious  low  matted  habit,  and  the 
great  height  on  the  snowy  mountains  at  which  it 
bravely  grows.  It  forms  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
timber-line  on  both  flanks  of  the  summit  moun- 
tains— if  so  lowly  a  tree  can  be  called  timber  — 
at  an  elevation  of  ten  to  twelve  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Where  it  is  first  met 
on  the  lower  limit  of  its  range  it  may  be  thirty 
or  forty  feet  high,  but  farther  up  the  rocky 
wind-swept  slopes,  where  the  snow  lies  deep  and 
heavy  for  six  months  of  the  year,  it  makes  shaggy 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    107 

clumps  and  beds,  crinkled  and  pressed  flat,  over 
which  you  can  easily  walk.  Nevertheless  in  this 
crushed,  down-pressed,  felted  condition  it  clings 
hardily  to  life,  puts  forth  fresh  leaves  every 
spring  on  the  ends  of  its  tasseled  branchlets, 
blooms  bravely  in  the  lashing  blasts  with  abun- 
dance of  gay  red  and  purple  flowers,  matures  its 
seeds  in  the  short  summers,  and  often  outlives 
the  favored  giants  of  the  sun  lands  far  below. 
One  of  the  trees  that  I  examined  was  only  about 
three  feet  high,  with  a  stem  six  inches  in  diame- 
ter at  the  ground,  and  branches  that  spread  out 
horizontally  as  if  they  had  grown  up  against  a 
ceiling ;  yet  it  was  four  hundred  and  twenty-six 
years  old,  and  one  of  its  supple  branchlets,  about 
an  eighth  of  an  inch  in  diameter  inside  the  bark, 
was  seventy-five  years  old,  and  so  tough  that  I 
tied  it  into  knots.  At  the  age  of  this  dwarf 
many  of  the  sugar  and  yellow  pines  and  sequoias 
are  seven  feet  in  diameter  and  over  two  hundred 
feet  high. 

In  detached  clumps  never  touched  by  fire  the 
fallen  needles  of  centuries  of  growth  make  fine 
elastic  mattresses  for  the  weary  mountaineer,  while 
the  tasseled  branchlets  spread  a  roof  over  him,  and 
the  dead  roots,  half  resin,  usually  found  in  abun- 
dance, make  capital  camp-fires,  unquenchable  in 
thickest  storms  of  rain  or  snow.  Seen  from  a 
distance  the  belts  and  patches  darkening  the 
mountain  sides  look  like  mosses  on  a  roof,  and 


108  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

bring  to  mind  Dr.  Johnson's  remarks  on  the 
trees  of  Scotland.  His  guide,  anxious  for  the 
honor  of  Mull,  was  still  talking  of  its  woods  and 
pointing  them  out.  "Sir/'  said  Johnson,  "I 
saw  at  Tobermory  what  they  called  a  wood,  which 
I  unluckily  took  for  heath.  If  you  show  me 
what  I  shall  take  for  furze,  it  will  be  something." 

The  mountain  pine  (  Pinus  monticola)  is  far 
the  largest  of  the  Sierra  tree  mountaineers. 
Climbing  nearly  as  high  as  the  dwarf  albicaulis, 
it  is  still  a  giant  in  size,  bold  and  strong,  stand- 
ing erect  on  the  storm-beaten  peaks  and  ridges, 
tossing  its  cone-laden  branches  in  the  rough 
winds,  living  a  thousand  years,  and  reaching  its 
greatest  size  —  ninety  to  a  hundred  feet  in  height, 
six  to  eight  in  diameter  —  just  where  other  trees, 
its  companions,  are  dwarfed.  But  it  is  not  able 
to  endure  burial  in  snow  so  long  as  the  albicaulis 
and  flexilis.  Therefore,  on  the  upper  limit  of 
its  range  it  is  found  on  slopes  which,  from  their 
steepness  or  exposure,  are  least  snowy.  Its  soft 
graceful  beauty  in  youth,  and  its  leaves,  cones, 
and  outsweeping  feathery  branches  constantly 
remind  you  of  the  sugar  pine,  to  which  it  is 
closely  allied.  An  admirable  tree,  growing  no- 
bler in  form  and  size  the  colder  and  balder  the 
mountains  about  it. 

The  giants  of  the  main  forest  in  the  favored 
middle  region  are  the  sequoia,  sugar  pine,  yellow 
pine,  libocedrus,  Douglas  spruce,  and  the  two 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    109 

silver  firs.  The  park  sequoias  are  restricted  to 
two  small  groves,  a  few  miles  apart,  on  the  Tuol- 
umne  and  Merced  divide,  about  seventeen  miles 
from  Yosemite  Valley.  The  Big  Oak  Flat  road 
to  the  valley  runs  through  the  Tuolumne  Grove, 
the  Coulterville  through  the  Merced.  The  more 
famous  and  better  known  Mariposa  Grove,  be- 
longing to  the  state,  lies  near  the  southwest  cor- 
ner of  the  park,  a  few  miles  above  Wawona. 

The  sugar  pine  (Pinus  Lambertiana)  is  first 
met  in  the  park  in  open,  sunny,  flowery  woods, 
at  an  elevation  of  about  thirty-five  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  attains  full  development  at  a  height 
between  five  and  six  thousand  feet,  and  vanishes 
at  the  level  of  eight  thousand  feet.  In  many 
places,  especially  on  the  northern  slopes  of  the 
main  ridges  between  the  rivers,  it  forms  the  bulk 
of  the  forest,  but  mostly  it  is  intimately  asso- 
ciated with  its  noble  companions,  above  which  it 
towers  in  glorious  majesty  on  every  hill,  ridge, 
and  plateau  from  one  extremity  of  the  range  to 
the  other,  a  distance  of  five  hundred  miles, — 
the  largest,  noblest,  and  most  beautiful  of  all 
the  seventy  or  eighty  species  of  pine  trees  in  the 
world,  and  of  all  the  conifers  second  only  to  King 
Sequoia. 

A  good  many  are  from  two  hundred  to  two 
hundred  and  twenty  feet  in  height,  with  a  dia- 
meter at  four  feet  from  the  ground  of  six  to  eight 
feet,  and  occasionally  a  grand  patriarch,  seven  or 


110  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

eight  hundred  years  old,  is  found  that  is  ten  or 
even  twelve  feet  in  diameter  and  two  hundred 
and  forty  feet  high,  with  a  magnificent  crown 
seventy  feet  wide.  David  Douglas,  who  discov- 
ered "  this  most  beautiful  and  immensely  grand 
tree  "  in  the  fall  of  1826  in  southern  Oregon, 
says  that  the  largest  of  several  that  had  been 
blown  down,  "at  three  feet  from  the  ground 
was  fifty-seven  feet  nine  inches  in  circumference" 
(or  fully  eighteen  feet  in  diameter)  ;  "  at  one 
hundred  and  thirty-four  feet,  seventeen  feet  five 
inches  ;  extreme  length,  two  hundred  and  forty- 
five  feet."  Probably  for  fifty-seven  we  should 
read  thirty-seven  for  the  base  measurement, 
which  would  make  it  correspond  with  the  other 
dimensions ;  for  none  of  this  species  with  any- 
thing like  so  great  a  girth  has  since  been  seen. 
A  girth  of  even  thirty  feet  is  uncommon.  A 
fallen  specimen  that  I  measured  was  nine  feet 
three  inches  in  diameter  inside  the  bark  at  four 
feet  from  the  ground,  and  six  feet  in  diameter 
at  a  hundred  feet  from  the  ground.  A  compar- 
atively young  tree,  three  hundred  and  thirty 
years  old,  that  had  been  cut  down,  measured 
seven  feet  across  the  stump,  was  three  feet  three 
inches  in  diameter  at  a  height  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet,  and  two  hundred  and  ten  feet  in 
length. 

The  trunk  is  a  round,  delicately  tapered  shaft 
with  finely  furrowed  purplish-brown  bark,  usually 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    111 

free  of  limbs  for  a  hundred  feet  or  more.  The 
top  is  furnished  with  long  and  comparatively 
slender  branches,  which  sweep  gracefully  down- 
ward and  outward,  feathered  with  short  tasseled 
branchlets,  and  divided  only  at  the  ends,  forming 
a  palmlike  crown  fifty  to  seventy-five  feet  wide, 
but  without  the  monotonous  uniformity  of  palm 
crowns  or  of  the  spires  of  most  conifers.  The 
old  trees  are  as  tellingly  varied  and  picturesque 
as  oaks.  No  two  are  alike,  and  we  are  tempted 
to  stop  and  admire  every  one  we  come  to,  whether 
as  it  stands  silent  in  the  calm  balsam-scented  sun- 
shine or  waving  in  accord  with  enthusiastic 
storms.  The  leaves  are  about  three  or  four 
inches  long,  in  clusters  of  five,  finely  tempered, 
bright  lively  green,  and  radiant.  The  flowers 
are  but  little  larger  than  those  of  the  dwarf  pine, 
and  far  less  showy.  The  immense  cylindrical 
cones,  fifteen  to  twenty  or  even  twenty-tour  inches 
long  and  three  in  diameter,  hang  singly  or  in 
clusters,  like  ornamental  tassels,  at  the  ends  of 
the  long  branches,  green,  flushed  with  purple  on 
the  sunward  side.  Like  those  of  almost  all  the 
pines  they  ripen  in  the  autumn  of  the  second 
season  from  the  flower,  and  the  seeds  of  all  that 
have  escaped  the  Indians,  bears,  and  squirrels 
take  wing  and  fly  to  their  places.  Then  the 
cones  become  still  more  effective  as  ornaments, 
for  by  the  spreading  of  the  scales  the  diameter  is 
nearly  doubled,  and  the  color  changes  to  a  rich 


112  OUR  NATIONAL  PAEKS 

brown.  They  remain  on  the  tree  the  following 
winter  and  summer ;  therefore  few  fertile  trees 
are  ever  found  without  them.  Nor  even  after 
they  fall  is  the  beauty  work  of  these  grand  cones 
done,  for  they  make  a  fine  show  on  the  flowery, 
needle-strewn  ground.  The  wood  is  pale  yellow, 
fine  in  texture,  and  deliciously  fragrant.  The 
sugar,  which  gives  name  to  the  tree,  exudes  from 
the  heart  wood  on  wounds  made  by  fire  or  the 
axe,  and  forms  irregular  crisp  white  candy-like 
masses.  To  the  taste  of  most  people  it  is  as 
good  as  maple  sugar,  though  it  cannot  be  eaten 
in  large  quantities. 

No  traveler,  whether  a  tree  lover  or  not,  will 
ever  forget  his  first  walk  in  a  sugar-pine  forest. 
The  majestic  crowns  approaching  one  another 
make  a  glorious  canopy,  through  the  feathery 
arches  of  which  the  sunbeams  pour,  silvering  the 
needles  and  gilding  the  stately  columns  and  the 
ground  into  a  scene  of  enchantment. 

The  yellow  pine  (Pinus  ponderosa)  is  sur- 
passed in  size  and  nobleness  of  port  only  by  its 
kingly  companion.  Full-grown  trees  in  the  main 
forest  where  it  is  associated  with  the  sugar  pine, 
are  about  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  high, 
with  a  diameter  of  five  to  six  feet,  though  much 
larger  specimens  may  easily  be  found.  The 
largest  I  ever  measured  was  a  little  over  eight 
feet  in  diameter  four  feet  above  the  ground,  and 
two  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high.  Where  there 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    113 

is  plenty  of  sunshine  and  other  conditions  are 
favorable,  it  is  a  massive  symmetrical  spire, 
formed  of  a  strong  straight  shaft  clad  with  innu- 
merable branches,  which  are  divided  again  and 
again  into  stout  branchlets  laden  with  bright 
shining  needles  and  green  or  purple  cones. 
Where  the  growth  is  at  all  close  half  or  more  of 
the  trunk  is  branchless.  The  species  attains  its 
greatest  size  and  most  majestic  form  in  open 
groves  on  the  deep,  well-drained  soil  of  lake 
basins  at  an  elevation  of  about  four  thousand 
feet.  There  nearly  all  the  old  trees  are  over  two 
hundred  feet  high,  and  the  heavy,  leafy,  much- 
divided  branches  sumptuously  clothe  the  trunk 
almost  to  the  ground.  Such  trees  are  easily 
climbed,  and  in  going  up  the  winding  stairs  of 
knotty  limbs  to  the  top  you  will  gain  a  most  tell- 
ing and  memorable  idea  of  the  height,  the  rich- 
ness and  intricacy  of  the  branches,  and  the  mar- 
velous abundance  and  beauty  of  the  long  shining 
elastic  foliage.  In  tranquil  weather,  you  will  see 
the  firm  outstanding  needles  in  calm  content, 
shimmering  and  throwing  off  keen  minute  rays 
of  light  like  lances  of  ice  ;  but  when  heavy  winds 
are  blowing,  the  strong  towers  bend  and  wave  in 
the  blast  with  eager  wide-awake  enthusiasm,  and 
every  tree  in  the  grove  glows  and  flashes  in  one 
mass  of  white  sunfire. 

Both  the  yeUow  and  sugar  pines  grow  rapidly 
on  good  soil  where  they  are  not  crowded.     At 


114  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  age  of  a  hundred  years  they  are  about  two 
feet  in  diameter  and  a  hundred  or  more  high. 
They  are  then  very  handsome,  though  very  un- 
like :  the  sugar  pine,  lithe,  feathery,  closely  clad 
with  ascending  branches ;  the  yellow,  open, 
showing  its  axis  from  the  ground  to  the  top,  its 
whorled  branches  but  little  divided  as  yet, 
spreading  and  turning  up  at  the  ends  with  mag- 
nificent tassels  of  long  stout  bright  needles,  the 
terminal  shoot  with  its  leaves  being  often  three- 
or  four  feet  long  and  a  foot  and  a  half  wide,  the 
most  hopeful  looking  and  the  handsomest  tree- 
top  in  the  woods.  But  instead  of  increasing, 
like  its  companion,  in  wildness  and  individual- 
ity of  form  with  age,  it  becomes  more  evenly 
and  compactly  spiry.  The  bark  is  usually  very 
thick,  four  to  six  inches  at  the  ground,  and  ar- 
ranged in  large  plates,  some  of  them  on  the 
7ower  part  of  the  trunk  four  or  five  feet  long 
and  twelve  to  eighteen  inches  wide,  forming  a 
strong  defense  against  fire.  The  leaves  are  in 
threes,  and  from  three  inches  to  a  foot  long. 
The  flowers  appear  in  May  :  the  staminate  pink 
or  brown,  in  conspicuous  clusters  two  or  three 
inches  wide ;  the  pistillate  crimson,  a  fourth  of 
an  inch  wide,  and  mostly  hidden  among  the 
leaves  on  the  tips  of  the  branchlets.  The  cones 
vary  from  about  three  to  ten  inches  in  length, 
two  to  five  in  width,  and  grow  in  sessile  out- 
standing clusters  near  the  ends  of  the  upturned 
branchlets. 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    115 

Being  able  to  endure  fire  and  hunger  and 
many  climates  this  grand  tree  is  widely  distribu- 
ted :  eastward  from  the  coast  across  the  broad 
Rocky  Mountain  ranges  to  the  Black  Hills  of 
Dakota,  a  distance  of  more  than  a  thousand 
miles,  and  southward  from  British  Columbia, 
near  latitude  51°,  to  Mexico,  about  fifteen  hun- 
dred miles.  South  of  the  Columbia  River  it 
meets  the  sugar  pine,  and  accompanies  it  all  the 
way  down  along  the  Coast  and  Cascade  moun- 
tains and  the  Sierra  and  southern  ranges  to  the 
mountains  of  the  peninsula  of  Lower  California, 
where  they  find  their  southmost  homes  together. 
Pinus  ponderosa  is  extremely  variable,  and  much 
bother  it  gives  botanists  who  try  to  catch  and 
confine  the  unmanageable  proteus  in  two  or  a 
dozen  species,  —  Jeffreyi,  deflexa,  Apacheca  lati- 
folia,  etc.  But  in  all  its  wanderings,  in  every 
form,  it  manifests  noble  strength.  Clad  in  thick 
bark  like  a  warrior  in  mail,  it  extends  its  bright 
ranks  over  ah1  the  high  ranges  of  the  wild  side 
of  the  continent :  flourishes  in  the  drenching 
fog  and  rain  of  the  northern  coast  at  the  level 
of  the  sea,  in  the  snow-laden  blasts  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  white  glaring  sunshine  of  the 
interior  plateaus  and  plains,  on  the  borders  of 
mirage-haunted  deserts,  volcanoes,  and  lava  beds, 
waving  its  bright  plumes  in  the  hot  winds  un- 
daunted, blooming  every  year  for  centuries,  and 
tossing  big  ripe  cones  among  the  cinders  and 
ashes  of  nature's  hearths. 


116  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  Douglas  spruce  grows  with  the  great 
pines,  especially  on  the  cool  north  sides  of  ridges 
and  canons,  and  is  here  nearly  as  large  as  the 
yellow  pine,  but  less  abundant.  The  wood  is 
strong  and  tough,  the  bark  thick  and  deeply 
furrowed,  and  on  vigorous,  quick-growing  trees 
the  stout,  spreading  branches  are  covered  with 
innumerable  slender,  swaying  sprays,  handsomely 
clothed  with  short  leaves.  The  flowers  are  about 
three  fourths  of  an  inch  in  length,  red  or  green- 
ish, not  so  showy  as  the  pendulous  bracted 
cones.  But  in  June  and  July,  when  the  young 
bright  yellow  leaves  appear,  the  entire  tree  seems 
to  be  covered  with  bloom. 

It  is  this  grand  tree  that  forms  the  famous 
forests  of  western  Oregon,  Washington,  and  the 
adjacent  coast  regions  of  British  Columbia, 
where  it  attains  its  greatest  size  and  is  most 
abundant,  making  almost  pure  forests  over  thou- 
sands of  square  miles,  dark  and  close  and  almost 
inaccessible,  many  of  the  trees  towering  with 
straight,  imperceptibly  tapered  shafts  to  a  height 
of  three  hundred  feet,  their  heads  together  shut- 
ting out  the  light,  — one  of  the  largest,  most 
widely  distributed,  and  most  important  of  all  the 
Western  giants. 

The  incense  cedar  (Libocedrus  decurrens), 
when  full  grown,  is  a  magnificent  tree,  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  to  nearly  two  hundred  feet 
high,  five  to  eight  and  occasionally  twelve  feet 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    117 

in  diameter,  with  cinnamon-colored  bark  and 
warm  yellow-green  foliage,  and  in  general  ap- 
pearance like  an  arbor  vitse.  It  is  distributed 
through  the  main  forest  from  an  elevation  of 
three  to  six  thousand  feet,  and  in  sheltered  por- 
tions of  canons  on  the  warm  sides  to  seven  thou- 
sand five  hundred.  In  midwinter,  when  most 
trees  are  asleep,  it  puts  forth  its  flowers.  The 
pistillate  are  pale  green  and  inconspicuous ;  but 
the  staminate  are  yellow,  about  one  fourth  of  an 
inch  long,  and  are  produced  in  myriads,  tingeing 
all  the  branches  with  gold,  and  making  the  tree 
as  it  stands  in  the  snow  look  like  a  gigantic 
goldenrod.  Though  scattered  rather  sparsely 
amongst  its  companions  in  the  open  woods,  it  is 
seldom  out  of  sight,  and  its  bright  brown  shafts 
and  warm  masses  of  plumy  foliage  make  a  strik- 
ing feature  of  the  landscape.  While  young  and 
growing  fast  in  an  open  situation  no  other  tree 
of  its  size  in  the  park  forms  so  exactly  tapered  a 
pyramid.  The  branches,  outspread  in  flat 
plumes  and  beautifully  fronded,  sweep  grace- 
fully down  ward,  and  outward,  except  those  near 
the  top,  which  aspire ;  the  lowest  droop  to  the 
ground,  overlapping  one  another,  shedding  off 
rain  and  snow,  and  making  fine  tents  for  storm- 
bound mountaineers  and  birds.  In  old  age  it 
becomes  irregular  and  picturesque,  mostly  from 
accidents :  running  fires,  heavy  wet  snow  break- 
ing the  branches,  lightning  shattering  the  top, 


118  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

compelling  it  to  try  to  make  new  summits  out  of 
side  branches,  etc.  Still  it  frequently  lives  more 
than  a  thousand  years,  invincibly  beautiful,  and 
worthy  its  place  beside  the  Douglas  spruce  and 
the  great  pines. 

This  unrivaled  forest  is  still  further  enriched 
by  two  majestic  silver  firs,  Abies  magnifica  and 
Abies  concolor,  bands-  of  which  come  down  from 
the  main  fir  belt  by  cool  shady  ridges  and  glens. 
Abies  magnifica  is  the  noblest  of  its  race,  grow- 
ing on  moraines,  at  an  elevation  of  seven  thou- 
sand to  eight  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above 
the  sea,  to  a  1  eight  of  two  hundred  or  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet,  and  five  to  seven  in  diame- 
ter ;  and  with  these  noble  dimensions  there  is  a 
richness  and  symmetry  and  perfection  of  finish 
not  to  be  found  in  any  other  tree  in  the  Sierra. 
The  branches  are  whorled,  in  fives  mostly,  and 
stand  out  from  the  straight  red  purple  bole  in 
level  or,  on  old  trees,  in  drooping  collars,  every 
branch  regularly  pinnated  like  fern  fronds,  and 
clad  with  silvery  needles,  making  broad  plumes 
singularly  rich  and  sumptuous. 

The  flowers  are  in  their  prime  about  the  mid- 
dle of  June :  the  staminate  red,  growing  on  the 
underside  of  the  branchlets  in  crowded  profusion, 
giving  a  rich  color  to  nearly  all  the  tree ;  the 
pistillate  greenish  yellow  tinged  with  pink,  stand- 
ing erect  on  the  upper  side  of  the  topmost 
branches  ;  while  the  tufts  of  young  leaves,  about 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    119 

as  brightly  colored  as  those  of  the  Douglas 
spruce,  push  out  their  fragrant  brown  buds  a 
few  weeks  later,  making  another  grand  show. 

The  cones  mature  in  a  single  season  from  the 
flowers.  When  full  grown  they  are  about  six 
to  eight  inches  long,  three  or  four  in  diameter, 
blunt,  massive,  cylindrical,  greenish  gray  in  color, 
covered  with  a  fine  silvery  down,  and  beaded 
with  transparent  balsam,  very  rich  and  precious- 
looking,  standing  erect  like  casks  on  the  topmost 
branches.  If  possible,  the  inside  of  the  cone  is 
still  more  beautiful.  The  scales  and  bracts  are 
tinged  with  red,  and  the  seed  wings  are  purple 
with  bright  iridescence. 

Abies  concolor,  the  white  silver  fir,  grows  best 
about  two  thousand  feet  lower  than  the  magni- 
fica.  It  is  nearly  as  large,  but  the  branches  are 
less  regularly  pinnated  and  whorled,  the  leaves 
are  longer,  and  instead  of  standing  out  around 
the  branchlets  or  turning  up  and  clasping  them 
they  are  mostly  arranged  in  two  horizontal  or 
ascending  rows,  and  the  cones  are  less  than  half 
as  large.  The  bark  of  the  magnifica  is  reddish 
purple  and  closely  furrowed,  that  of  the  concolor 
is  gray  and  widely  furrowed,  —  a  noble  pair,  ri- 
valed only  by  the  Abies  grandis,  amabilis,  and 
nobilis  of  the  forests  of  Oregon,  Washington, 
and  the  Northern  California  Coast  Range.  But 
none  of  these  northern  species  form  pure  forests 
that  in  extent  and  beauty  approach  those  of  the 
Sierra. 


120  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  seeds  of  the  conifers  are  curiously  formed 
and  colored,  white,  brown,  purple,  plain  or 
spotted  like  birds'  eggs,  and  excepting  the  juni- 
per they  are  all  handsomely  and  ingeniously 
winged  with  reference  to  their  distribution. 
They  are  a  sort  of  cunningly  devised  flying  ma- 
chines, —  one-winged  birds,  birds  with  but  one 
feather,  —  and  they  take  but  one  flight,  all  save 
those  which,  after  flying  from  the  cone-nest  in 
calm  weather,  chance  to  alight  on  branches 
where  they  have  to  wait  for  a  wind.  And  though 
these  seed  wings  are  intended  for  only  a  mo- 
ment's use,  they  are  as  thoughtfully  colored  and 
fashioned  as  the  wings  of  birds,  and  require 
from  one  to  two  seasons  to  grow.  Those  of  the 
pine,  fir,  hemlock,  and  spruce  are  curved  in  such 
manner  that,  in  being  dragged  through  the  air 
by  the  seeds,  they  are  made  to  revolve,  whirling 
the  seeds  in  a  close  spiral,  and  sustaining  them 
long  enough  to  allow  the  winds  to  carry  them  to 
considerable  distances,  —  a  style  of  flying  full 
of  quick  merry  motion,  strikingly  contrasted  to 
the  sober  dignified  sailing  of  seeds  on  tufts  of 
feathery  pappus.  Surely  no  merrier  adventurers 
ever  set  out  to  seek  their  fortunes.  Only  in  the 
fir  woods  are  large  flocks  seen ;  for,  unlike  the 
cones  of  the  pine,  spruce,  hemlock,  etc.,  which 
let  the  seeds  escape  slowly,  one  or  two  at  a  time, 
by  spreading  the  scales,  the  fir  cones  when  ripe 
fall  to  pieces,  and  let  nearly  all  go  at  once  in 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    121 

favorable  weather.  All  along  the  Sierra  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  on  dry  breezy  autumn  days,  the 
sunny  spaces  in  the  woods  among  the  colossal 
spires  are  in  a  whirl  with  these  shining  purple- 
winged  wanderers,  notwithstanding  the  harvest- 
ing squirrels  have  been  working  at  the  top  of  their 
speed  for  weeks  trying  to  cut  off  every  cone  before 
the  seeds  were  ready  to  swarm  and  fly.  Sequoia 
seeds  have  flat  wings,  and  glint  and  glance  in 
their  flight  like  a  boy's  kite.  The  dispersal  of 
juniper  seeds  is  effected  by  the  plum  and  cherry 
plan  of  hiring  birds  at  the  cost  of  their  board, 
and  thus  obtaining  the  use  of  a  pair  of  extra 
good  wings. 

Above  the  great  fir  belt,  and  below  the  ragged 
beds  and  fringes  of  the  dwarf  pine,  stretch  the 
broad  dark  forests  of  Pinus  contorta,  var.  Mur- 
rayana,  usually  called  tamarack  pine.  On  broad 
fields  of  moraine  material  it  forms  nearly  pure 
forests  at  an  elevation  of  about  eight  or  nine 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  where  it  is  a  small, 
well  proportioned  tree,  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high 
and  one  or  two  in  diameter,  with  thin  gray 
bark,  crooked  much-divided  straggling  branches, 
short  needles  in  clusters  of  two,  bright  yellow 
and  crimson  flowers,  and  small  prickly  cones. 
The  very  largest  I  ever  measured  was  ninety 
feet  in  height,  and  a  little  over  six  feet  in  dia- 
meter four  feet  above  the  ground.  On  moist 
well-drained  soil  in  sheltered  hollows  along 


122  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

streamsides  it  grows  tall  and  slender  with  ascend- 
ing branches,  making  graceful  arrowy  spires  fifty 
to  seventy-five  feet  high,  with  stems  only  five  or 
six  inches  thick. 

The  most  extensive  forest  of  this  pine  in  the 
park  lies  to  the  north  of  the  Big  Tuolumne 
Meadows,  —  a  famous  deer  pasture  and  hunting 
ground  of  the  Mono  Indians.  For  miles  over 
wide  moraine  beds  there  is  an  even,  nearly  pure 
growth,  broken  only  by  glacier  meadows,  around 
which  the  trees  stand  in  trim  array,  their  sharp 
spires  showing  to  fine  advantage  both  in  green 
flowery  summer  and  white  winter.  On  account 
of  the  closeness  of  its  growth  in  many  places, 
and  the  thinness  and  gumminess  of  its  bark,  it  is 
easily  killed  by  running  fires,  which  work  wide- 
spread destruction  in  its  ranks  ;  but  a  new  gen- 
eration rises  quickly  from  the  ashes,  for  all  or  a 
part  of  its  seeds  are  held  in  reserve  for  a  year  or 
two  or  many  years,  and  when  the  tree  is  killed 
the  cones  open  and  the  seeds  are  scattered  over 
the  burned  ground  like  those  of  the  attenuata. 

Next  to  the  mountain  hemlock  and  the  dwarf 
pine  this  species  best  endures  burial  in  heavy 
snow,  while  in  braving  hunger  and  cold  on  rocky 
ridgetops  it  is  not  surpassed  by  any.  It  is  dis- 
tributed from  Alaska  to  Southern  California,  and 
inland  across  the  Rocky  Mountains,  taking  many 
forms  in  accordance  with  demands  of  climate, 
soil,  rivals,  and  enemies ;  growing  patiently  in 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    123 

bogs  and  on  sand  dunes  beside  the  sea  where  it 
is  pelted  with  salt  scud,  on  high  snowy  moun- 
tains and  down  in  the  throats'of  extinct  volcanoes; 
springing  up  with  invincible  vigor  after  every 
devastating  fire  and  extending  its  conquests 
farther. 

The  sturdy  storm-enduring  red  cedar  (Juni- 
perus  occidentalis)  delights  to  dwell  on  the  tops 
of  granite  domes  and  ridges  and  glacier  pave- 
ments of  the  upper  pine  belt,  at  an  elevation  of 
seven  to  ten  thousand  feet,  where  it  can  get 
plenty  of  sunshine  and  snow  and  elbow-room 
without  encountering  quick-growing  overshadow- 
ing rivals.  They  never  make  anything  like  a 
forest,  seldom  come  together  even  in  groves,  but 
stand  out  separate  and  independent  in  the  wind, 
clinging  by  slight  joints  to  the  rock,  living 
chiefly  on  snow  and  thin  air,  and  maintaining 
tough  health  on  this  diet  for  two  thousand  years 
or  more,  every  feature  and  gesture  expressing 
steadfast  dogged  endurance.  The  largest  are 
usually  about  six  or  eight  feet  in  diameter,  and 
fifteen  or  twenty  in  height.  A  very  few  are  ten 
feet  in  diameter,  and  on  isolated  moraine  heaps 
forty  to  sixty  feet  in  height.  Many  are  mere 
stumps,  as  broad  as  high,  broken  by  avalanches 
and  lightning,  picturesquely  tufted  with  dense 
gray  scalelike  foliage,  and  giving  no  hint  of  dy- 
ing. The  staminate  flowers  are  like  those  of  the 
libocedrus,  but  smaller ;  the  pistillate  are  incon- 


124  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

spicuous.  The  wood  is  red,  fine-grained,  and 
fragrant;  the  bark  bright  cinnamon  and  red, 
and  in  thrifty  trees  is  strikingly  braided  and  re- 
ticulated, flaking  off  in  thin  lustrous  ribbons, 
which  the  Indians  used  to  weave  into  matting 
and  coarse  cloth.  These  brown  unshakable  pil- 
lars, standing  solitary  on  polished  pavements 
with  bossy  masses  of  foliage  in  their  arms,  are 
exceedingly  picturesque,  and  never  fail  to  catch 
the  eye  of  the  artist.  They  seem  sole  survivors 
of  some  ancient  race,  wholly  unacquainted  with 
their  neighbors. 

I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of  time,  trying  to 
determine  their  age,  but  on  account  of  dry  rot 
which  honeycombs  most  of  the  old  ones,  I  never 
got  a  complete  count  of  the  largest.  Some  are 
undoubtedly  more  than  two  thousand  years  old ; 
for  though  on  good  moraine  soil  they  grow  about 
as  fast  as  oaks,  on  bare  pavements  and  smoothly 
glaciated  overswept  granite  ridges  in  the  dome 
region  they  grow  extremely  slowly.  One  on  the 
Starr  King  ridge,  only  two  feet  eleven  inches  in 
diameter,  was  eleven  hundred  and  forty  years 
old.  Another  on  the  same  ridge,  only  one  foot 
seven  and  a  half  inches  in  diameter,  had  reached 
the  age  of  eight  hundred  and  thirty-four  years. 
The  first  fifteen  inches  from  the  bark  of  a  me- 
dium-sized tree  —  six  feet  in  diameter  —  on  the 
north  Tenaya  pavement  had  eight  hundred  and 
fifty-nine  layers  of  wood,  or  fifty-seven  to  the 


THE  FORESTS  OF   THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    125 

inch.  Beyond  this  the  count  was  stopped  by 
dry  rot  and  scars  of  old  wounds.  The  largest  I 
examined  was  thirty-three  feet  in  girth,  or  nearly 
ten  in  diameter  ;  and  though  I  failed  to  get  any- 
thing like  a  complete  count,  I  learned  enough 
from  this  and  many  other  specimens  to  convince 
me  that  most  of  the  trees  eight  to  ten  feet  thick 
standing  on  pavements  are  more  than  twenty  cen- 
turies of  age  rather  than  less.  Barring  accidents, 
for  all  I  can  see,  they  would  live  forever.  When 
killed,  they  waste  out  of  existence  about  as  slowly 
as  granite.  Even  when  overthrown  by  ava- 
lanches, after  standing  so  long,  they  refuse  to  lie 
at  rest,  leaning  stubbornly  on  their  big  elbows  as 
if  anxious  to  rise,  and  while  a  single  root  holds 
to  the  rock  putting  forth  fresh  leaves  with  a  grim 
never-say-die  and  never-lie-down  expression. 

As  the  juniper  is  the  most  stubborn  and  un- 
shakable of  trees,  the  mountain  hemlock  (Tsuga 
Mertensiana)  is  the  most  graceful  and  pliant  and 
sensitive,  responding  to  the  slightest  touches  of 
the  wind.  Until  it  reaches  a  height  of  fifty  or 
sixty  feet  it  is  sumptuously  clothed  down  to  the 
ground  with  drooping  branches,  which  are  di- 
vided into  countless  delicate  waving  sprays, 
grouped  and  arranged  in  most  indescribably 
beautiful  ways,  and  profusely  sprinkled  with 
handsome  brown  cones.  The  flowers  also  are 
peculiarly  beautiful  and  effective  :  the  pistillate 
very  dark  rich  purple ;  the  staminate  blue  of  so 


126  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

fine  and  pure  a  tone  that  th'e  best  azure  of  the 
high  sky  seems  to  be  condensed  in  them. 

Though  apparently  the  most  delicate  and  femi- 
nine of  all  the  mountain  trees,  it  grows  best 
where  the  snow  lies  deepest,  at  an  elevation  of 
from  nine  thousand  to  nine  thousand  five  hun- 
dred feet,  in  hollows  on  the  northern  slopes  of 
mountains  and  ridges.  But  under  all  circum- 
stances and  conditions  of  weather  and  soil,  shel- 
tered from  the  main  currents  of  the  winds  or  in 
blank  exposure  to  them,  well  fed  or  starved,  it  is 
always  singularly  graceful  in  habit.  Even  at  its 
highest  limit  in  the  park,  ten  thousand  five  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea  on  exposed  ridgetops, 
where  it  crouches  and  huddles  close  together  in 
low  thickets  like  those  of  the  dwarf  pine,  it  still 
contrives  to  put  forth  its  sprays  and  branches  in 
forms  of  irrepressible  beauty,  while  on  moist 
well-drained  moraines  it  displays  a  perfectly 
tropical  luxuriance  of  f oliage,  flower,  and  fruit. 

In  the  first  winter  storms  the  snow  is  often- 
times soft,  and  lodges  in  the  dense  leafy  branches, 
pressing  them  down  against  the  trunk,  and  the 
slender  drooping  axis  bends  lower  and  lower  as 
the  load  increases,  until  the  top  touches  the 
ground  and  an  ornamental  arch  is  made.  Then, 
as  storm  succeeds  storm  and  snow  is  heaped  on 
snow,  the  whole  tree  is  at  last  buried,  not  again 
to  see  the  light  or  move  leaf  or  limb  until  set 
free  by  the  spring  thaws  in  June  or  July.  Not 


THE  FOEESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    127 

the  young  saplings  only  are  thus  carefully  cov- 
ered and  put  to  sleep  in  the  whitest  of  white 
beds  for  five  or  six  months  of  the  year,  but  trees 
thirty  and  forty  feet  high.  From  April  to  May, 
when  the  snow  is  compacted,  you  may  ride  over 
the  prostrate  groves  without  seeing  a  single  branch 
or  leaf  of  them.  In  the  autumn  they  are  full  of 
merry  life,  when  Clark  crows,  squirrels,  and  chip- 
munks are  gathering  the  abundant  crop  of  seeds 
while  the  deer  rest  beneath  the  thick  conceal- 
ing branches.  The  finest  grove  in  the  park  is 
near  Mount  Conness,  and  the  trail  from  the 
Tuolumne  soda  springs  to  the  mountain  runs 
through  it.  Many  of  the  trees  in  this  grove  are 
three  to  four  or  five  feet  in  diameter  and  about 
a  hundred  feet  high. 

The  mountain  hemlock  is  widely  distributed 
from  near  the  south  extremity  of  the  high  Sierra 
northward  along  the  Cascade  Mountains  of  Ore- 
gon and  Washington  and  the  coast  ranges  of 
British  Columbia  to  Alaska,  where  it  was  first 
discovered  in  1827.  Its  northmost  limit,  so  far 
as  I  have  observed,  is  in  the  icy  fiords  of  Prince 
William's  Sound  in  latitude  61°,  where  it  forms 
pure  forests  at  the  level  of  the  sea,  growing  tall 
and  majestic  on  the  banks  of  the  great  glaciers, 
waving  in  accord  with  the  mountain  winds  and 
the  thunder  of  the  falling  icebergs.  Here  as  in 
the  Sierra  it  is  ineffably  beautiful,  the  very  love* 
liest  evergreen  in  America. 


128  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Of  the  round-headed  dicotyledonous  trees  in 
the  park  the  most  influential  are  the  black  and 
goldctip  oaks.  They  occur  in  some  parts  of  the 
main  forest  belt,  scattered  among  the  big  pines 
like  a  heavier  chaparral,  but  form  extensive 
groves  and  reach  perfect  development  only  in 
the  Yosemite  valleys  and  flats  of  the  main 
canons.  The  California  black  oak  (Quercus 
Californica)  is  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
beautiful  of  the  Western  oaks,  attaining  under  fa- 
vorable conditions  a  height  of  sixty  to  a  hundred 
feet,  with  a  trunk  three  to  seven  feet  in  diameter, 
wide-spreading  picturesque  branches,  and  smooth 
lively  green  foliage  handsomely  scalloped,  purple 
in  the  spring,  yellow  and  red  in  autumn.  It 
grows  best  in  sunny  open  groves  on  ground  cov- 
ered with  ferns,  chokecherry,  brier  rose,  rubus, 
mints,  goldenrods,  etc.  Few,  if  any,  of  the  fa- 
mous oak  groves  of  Europe,  however  extensive, 
surpass  these  in  the  size  and  strength  and  bright, 
airy  beauty  of  the  trees,  the  color  and  fragrance 
of  the  vegetation  beneath  them,  the  quality  of 
the  light  that  fills  their  leafy  arches,  and  in  the 
grandeur  of  the  surrounding  scenery.  The  fin- 
est grove  in  the  park  is  in  one  of  the  little  Yo- 
semite valleys  of  the  Tuolumne  Canon,  a  few 
miles  above  Hetch-Hetchy. 

The  mountain  live-oak,  or  goldcup  oak  (Quer- 
cus  chrysolepis),  forms  extensive  groves  on 
earthquake  and  avalanche  taluses  and  terraces 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    129 

in  canons  and  Yosemite  valleys,  from  about 
three  to  five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  In 
tough,  sturdy,  unwedgeable  strength  this  is  the 
oak  of  oaks.  In  general  appearance  it  resembles 
the  great  live-oak  of  the  Southern  states.  It 
has  pale  gray  bark,  a  short,  uneven,  heavily  but- 
tressed trunk  which  usually  divides  a  few  feet 
above  the  ground  into  strong  wide-reaching 
limbs,  forming  noble  arches,  and  ending  in  an  in- 
tricate maze  of  small  branches  and  sprays,  the 
outer  ones  frequently  drooping  in  long  tresses  to 
the  ground  like  those  of  the  weeping  willow, 
covered  with  small  simple  polished  leaves,  mak- 
ing a  canopy  broad  and  bossy,  on  which  the  sun- 
shine falls  in  glorious  brightness.  The  acorn 
cups  are  shallow,  thick-walled,  and  covered  with 
yellow  fuzzy  dust.  The  flowers  appear  in  May 
and  June  with  a  profusion  of  pollened  tresses, 
followed  by  the  bronze-colored  young  leaves. 

No  tree  in  the  park  is  a  better  measure  of  alti- 
tude. In  canons,  at  an  elevation  of  four  thou- 
sand feet,  you  may  easily  find  a  tree  six  or  eight 
feet  in  diameter ;  and  at  the  head  of  a  side 
canon,  three  thousand  feet  higher,  up  which  you 
can  climb  in  less  than  two  hours,  you  find  the 
knotty  giant  dwarfed  to  a  slender  shrub,  with 
leaves  like  those  of  huckleberry  bushes,  still 
bearing  acorns,  and  seemingly  contented,  form- 
ing dense  patches  of  chaparral,  on  the  top  of 
which  you  may  make  your  bed  and  sleep  softly 


130  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

like  a  Highlander  in  heather.  About  a  thou- 
sand feet  higher  it  is  still  smaller,  making  fringes 
about  a  foot  high  around  boulders  and  along 
seams  in  pavements  and  the  brows  of  canons, 
giving  hand-holds  here  and  there  on  cliffs  hard 
to  climb.  The  largest  I  have  measured  were 
from  twenty-five  to  twenty-seven  feet  in  girth, 
fifty  to  sixty  feet  high,  and  the  spread  of  the 
limbs  was  about  double  the  height. 

The  principal  riverside  trees  are  poplar,  alder, 
willow,  broad-leaved  maple,  and  NuttalFs  flower- 
ing dogwood.  The  poplar  (Populus  tricho- 
carpa),  often  called  balm  of  Gilead  from  the 
gum  on  its  buds,  is  a  tall,  stately  tree,  towering 
above  its  companions  and  gracefully  embowering 
the  banks  of  the  main  streams  at  an  elevation  of 
about  four  thousand  feet.  Its  abundant  foliage 
turns  bright  yellow  in  the  fall,  and  the  Indian- 
summer  sunshine  sifts  through  it  in  delightful 
tones  over  the  slow-gliding  waters  when  they  are 
at  their  lowest  ebb. 

The  flowering  dogwood  is  brighter  still  in 
these  brooding  days,  for  every  branch  of  its 
broad  head  is  then  a  brilliant  crimson  flame.  In 
the  spring,  when  the  streams  are  in  flood,  it  is 
the  whitest  of  trees,  white  as  a  snow  bank  with 
its  magnificent  flowers  four  to  eight  inches  in 
width,  making  a  wonderful  show,  and  drawing 
swarms  of  moths  and  butterflies. 

The  broad-leaved  maple  is  usually  found  in  the 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    131 

coolest  boulder-choked  canons,  where  the  streams 
are  gray  and  white  with  foam,  over  which  it 
spreads  its  branches  in  beautiful  arches  from 
bank  to  bank,  forming  leafy  tunnels  full  of  soft 
green  light  and  spray,  —  favorite  homes  of  the 
water  ousel.  Around  the  glacier  lakes,  two  or 
three  thousand  feet  higher,  the  common  aspen 
grows  in  fringing  lines  and  groves  which  are 
brilliantly  colored  in  autumn,  reminding  you  of 
the  color  glory  of  the  Eastern  woods. 

Scattered  here  and  there  or  in  groves  the  bota- 
nist will  find  a  few  other  trees,  mostly  small,  — 
the  mountain  mahogany,  cherry,  chestnut-oak, 
laurel,  and  nutmeg.  The  California  nutmeg 
(Tumion  Calif ornicum)  is  a  handsome  evergreen, 
belonging  to  the  yew  family,  with  pale  bark, 
prickly  leaves,  fruit  like  a  green-gage  plum,  and 
seed  like  a  nutmeg.  One  of  the  best  groves  of 
it  in  the  park  is  at  the  Cascades  below  Yosemite. 

But  the  noble  oaks  and  all  these  rock-shading, 
stream-embowering  trees  are  as  nothing  amid  the 
vast  abounding  billowy  forests  of  conifers.  Dur- 
ing my  first  years  in  the  Sierra  I  was  ever  calling 
on  everybody  within  reach  to  admire  them,  but 
I  found  no  one  half  warm  enough  until  Emerson 
came.  I  had  read  his  essays,  and  felt  sure  that  of 
all  men  he  would  best  interpret  the  sayings  of 
these  noble  mountains  and  trees.  Nor  was  my 
faith  weakened  when  I  met  him  in  Yosemite. 
He  seemed  as  serene  as  a  sequoia,  his  head  in  the 


132  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

empyrean  ;  and  forgetting  his  age,  plans,  duties, 
ties  of  every  sort,  I  proposed  an  immeasurable 
camping  trip  back  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains. 
He  seemed  anxious  to  go,  but  considerately  men- 
tioned his  party.  I  said  :  "  Never  mind.  The 
mountains  are  calling ;  run  away,  and  let  plans 
and  parties  and  dragging  lowland  duties  all 
f  gang  tapsal-teerie.'  We  '11  go  up  a  canon  sing- 
ing your  own  song,  '  Good-by,  proud  world ! 
I  'm  going  home,'  in  divine  earnest.  Up  there 
lies  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth ;  let  us  go  to 
the  show."  But  alas,  it  was  too  late,  —  too  near 
the  sundown  of  his  life.  The  shadows  were  grow- 
ing long,  and  he  leaned  on  his  friends.  His 
party,  f uh1  of  indoor  philosophy,  failed  to  see  the 
natural  beauty  and  fullness  of  promise  of  my  wild 
plan,  and  laughed  at  it  in  good-natured  ignorance, 
as  if  it  were  necessarily  amusing  to  imagine  that 
Boston  people  might  be  led  to  accept  Sierra 
manifestations  of  God  at  the  price  of  rough 
camping.  Anyhow,  they  would  have  none  of  it, 
and  held  Mr.  Emerson  to  the  hotels  and  trails. 

After  spending  only  five  tourist  days  in 
Yosemite  he  was  led  away,  but  I  saw  him  two 
days  more  ;  for  I  was  kindly  invited  to  go  with 
the  party  as  far  as  the  Mariposa  big  trees.  I  told 
Mr.  Emerson  that  I  would  gladly  go  to  the 
sequoias  with  him,  if  he  would  camp  in  the  grove. 
He  consented  heartily,  and  I  felt  sure  that  we 
would  have  at  least  one  good  wild  memorable  night 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    133 

around  a  sequoia  camp-fire.  Next  day  we  rode 
through  the  magnificent  forests  of  the  Merced 
basin,  and  I  kept  calling  his  attention  to  the 
sugar  pines,  quoting  his  wood-notes,  u  Come 
listen  what  the  pine  tree  saith,"  etc.,  pointing  out 
the  noblest  as  kings  and  high  priests,  the  most 
eloquent  and  commanding  preachers  of  all  the 
mountain  forests,  stretching  forth  their  century- 
old  arms  in  benediction  over  the  worshiping  con- 
gregations crowded  about  them.  He  gazed  in 
devout  admiration,  saying  but  little,  while  his  fine 
smile  faded  away. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  reached 
Clark's  Station,  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  party 
dismount.  And  when  I  asked  if  we  were  not 
going  up  into  the  grove  to  camp  they  said: 
"  No ;  it  would  never  do  to  lie  out  in  the  night 
air.  Mr.  Emerson  might  take  cold ;  and  you 
know,  Mr.  Muir,  that  would  be  a  dreadful 
thing."  In  vain  I  urged,  that  only  in  homes  and 
hotels  were  colds  caught,  that  nobody  ever  was 
known  to  take  cold  camping  in  these  woods,  that 
there  was  not  a  single  cough  or  sneeze  in  all  the 
Sierra.  Then  I  pictured  the  big  climate-changing, 
inspiring  fire  I  would  make,  praised  the  beauty 
and  fragrance  of  sequoia  flame,  told  how  the 
great  trees  would  stand  about  us  transfigured  in 
the  purple  light,  while  the  stars  looked  down 
between  the  great  domes  ;  ending  by  urging  them 
to  come  on  and  make  an  immortal  Emerson  night 


134  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  it.  But  the  house  habit  was  not  to  be  overcome^ 
nor  the  strange  dread  of  pure  night  air,  though 
it  is  only  cooled  day  air  with  a  little  dew  in  it. 
So  the  carpet  dust  and  unknowable  reeks  were 
preferred.  And  to  think  of  this  being  a  Boston 
choice  !  Sad  commentary  on  culture  and  the  glo- 
rious transcendentalism. 

Accustomed  to  reach  whatever  place  I  started 
for,  I  was  going  up  the  mountain  alone  to  camp, 
and  wait  the  coming  of  the  party  next  day.  But 
since  Emerson  was  so  soon  to  vanish,  I  con- 
cluded to  stop  with  him.  He  hardly  spoke  a 
word  all  the  evening,  yet  it  was  a  great  pleasure 
simply  to  be  near  him,  warming  in  the  light  of  his 
face  as  at  a  fire.  In  the  morning  we  rode  up  the 
trail  through  a  noble  forest  of  pine  and  fir  into 
the  famous  Mariposa  Grove,  and  stayed  an  hour  or 
two,  mostly  in  ordinary  tourist  fashion,  —  look- 
ing at  the  biggest  giants,  measuring  them  with  a 
tape  line,  riding  through  prostrate  fire-bored 
trunks,  etc.,  though  Mr.  Emerson  was  alone  occa- 
sionally, sauntering  about  as  if  under  a  spell. 
As  we  walked  through  a  fine  group,  he  quoted, 
"  There  were  giants  in  those  days,"  recognizing 
the  antiquity  of  the  race.  To  commemorate  his 
visit,  Mr.  Galen  Clark,  the  guardian  of  the  grove,, 
selected  the  finest  of  the  unnamed  trees  and  re- 
quested him  to  give  it  a  name.  He  named  it 
Samoset,  after  the  New  England  sachem,  as  the 
best  that  occurred  to  him. 


THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    135 

The  poor  bit  of  measured  time  was  soon  spent, 
and  while  the  saddles  were  being  adjusted  I  again 
urged  Emerson  to  stay.  "  You  are  yourself  a 
sequoia,"  I  said.  "  Stop  and  get  acquainted  with 
your  big  brethren."  But  he  was  past  his  prime, 
and  was  now  as  a  child  in  the  hands  of  his  affec- 
tionate but  sadly  civilized  friends,  who  seemed  as 
full  of  old-fashioned  conformity  as  of  bold  intel- 
lectual independence.  It  was  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  and  the  afternoon  of  his  life,  and  his 
course  was  now  westward  down  all  the  mountains 
into  the  sunset.  The  party  mounted  and  rode 
away  in  wondrous  contentment,  apparently, 
tracing  the  trail  through  ceanothus  and  dog- 
wood bushes,  around  the  bases  of  the  big  trees, 
up  the  slope  of  the  sequoia  basin,  and  over  the 
divide.  I  followed  to  the  edge  of  the  grove. 
Emerson  lingered  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  and 
when  he  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge,  after  all  the 
rest  of  the  party  were  over  and  out  of  sight,  he 
turned  his  horse,  took  off  his  hat  and  waved  me 
a  last  good-by.  I  felt  lonely,  so  sure  had  I  been 
that  Emerson  of  all  men  would  be  the  quickest 
to  see  the  mountains  and  sing  them.  Gazing 
awhile  on  the  spot  where  he  vanished,  I  sauntered 
back  into  the  heart  of  the  grove,  made  a  bed  of 
sequoia  plumes  and  ferns  by  the  side  of  a  stream, 
gathered  a  store  of  firewood,  and  then  walked 
about  until  sundown.  The  birds,  robins,  thrushes, 
warblers,  etc.,  that  had  kept  out  of  sight,  came 


136  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

about  me,  now  that  all  was  quiet,  and  made 
cheer.  After  sundown  I  built  a  great  fire,  and 
as  usual  had  it  all  to  myself.  And  though  lone- 
some for  the  first  time  in  these  forests,  I  quickly 
took  heart  again, — the  trees  had  not  gone  to 
Boston,  nor  the  birds ;  and  as  I  sat  by  the  fire, 
Emerson  was  still  with  me  in  spirit,  though  I 
never  again  saw  him  in  the  flesh.  He  sent  books 
and  wrote,  cheering  me  on ;  advised  me  not  to 
stay  too  long  in  solitude.  Soon  he  hoped  that 
my  guardian  angel  would  intimate  that  my  pro- 
bation was  at  a  close.  Then  I  was  to  roll  up  my 
herbariums,  sketches,  and  poems  (though  I  never 
knew  I  had  any  poems),  and  come  to  his  house ; 
and  when  I  tired  of  him  and  his  humble  sur- 
roundings, he  would  show  me  to  better  people. 

But  there  remained  many  a  forest  to  wander 
through,  many  a  mountain  and  glacier  to  cross, 
before  I  was  to  see  his  Wachusett  and  Monad- 
nock,  Boston  and  Concord.  It  was  seventeen 
years  after  our  parting  on  the  Wawona  ridge 
that  I  stood  beside  his  grave  under  a  pine  tree 
on  the  hill  above  Sleepy  Hollow.  He  had  gone 
to  higher  Sierras,  and,  as  I  fancied,  was  again 
waving  his  hand  in  friendly  recognition. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   WILD   GARDENS   OF   THE   YOSEMITE    PARK 

WHEN  California  was  wild,  it  was  the  floweri- 
est  part  of  the  continent.  And  perhaps  it  is  so 
still,  notwithstanding  the  lowland  flora  has  in 
great  part  vanished  before  the  farmers'  flocks 
and  ploughs.  So  exuberant  was  the  bloom  of 
the  main  valley  of  the  state,  it  would  still 
have  been  extravagantly  rich  had  ninety-nine  out 
of  every  hundred  of  its  crowded  flowers  been 
taken  away,  —  far  flowerier  than  the  beautiful 
prairies  of  Illinois  and  Wisconsin,  or  the  savan- 
nas of  the  Southern  states.  In  the  early  spring 
it  was  a  smooth,  evenly  planted  sheet  of  purple 
and  gold,  one  mass  of  bloom  more  than  four 
hundred  miles  long,  with  scarce  a  green  leaf  in 
sight. 

Still  more  interesting  is  the  rich  and  wonder- 
fully varied  flora  of  the  mountains.  Going  up 
the  Sierra  across  the  Yosemite  Park  to  the  Sum- 
mit peaks,  thirteen  thousand  feet  high,  you  find 
as  much  variety  in  the  vegetation  as  in  the  scen- 
ery. Change  succeeds  change  with  bewildering 
rapidity,  for  in  a  few  days  you  pass  through  as 


138  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

many  climates  and  floras,  ranged  one  above  an- 
other, as  you  would  in  walking  along  the  low- 
lands to  the  Arctic  Ocean. 

And  to  the  variety  due  to  climate  there  is 
/  added  that  caused  by  the  topographical  features 
of  the  different  regions.  Again,  the  vegetation 
^  is  profoundly  varied  by  the  peculiar  distribution 
^  of  the  soil  and  moisture.  Broad  and  deep  mo- 
raines, ancient  and  well  weathered,  are  spread 
over  the  lower  regions,  rough  and  comparatively 
recent  and  un weathered  moraines  over  the  middle 
and  upper  regions,  alternating  with  bare  ridges 
and  domes  and  glacier-polished  pavements,  the 
highest  in  the  icy  recesses  of  the  peaks,,  raw  and 
shifting,  some  of  them  being  still  in  process  of 
formation,  and  of  course  scarcely  planted  as  yet. 
Besides  these  main  soilbeds  there  are  many 
others  comparatively  small,  reformations  of  both 
glacial  and  weather  soils,  sifted,  sorted  out,  and 
deposited  by  running  water  and  the  wind  on 
gentle  slopes  and  in  all  sorts  of  hollows,  pot- 
holes, valleys,  lake  basins,  etc.,  —  some  in  dry 
and  breezy  situations,  others  sheltered  and  kept 
moist  by  lakes,  streams,  and  waf tings  of  waterfall 
spray,  making  comfortable  homes  for  plants 
widely  varied.  In  general,  glaciers  give  soil  to 
high  and  low  places  almost  alike,  while  water 
current^  are  dispensers  of  special  blessings,  con- 
stantly tending  to  make  the  ridges  poorer  and 
the  valleys  richer.  Glaciers  mingle  all  kinds  of 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    139 

material  together,  mud  particles  and  boulders 
fifty  feet  in  diameter  :  water,  whether  in  oozing 
currents  or  passionate  torrents,  discriminates  both 
in  the  size  and  shape  of  the  material  it  carries. 
Glacier  mud  is  the  finest  meal  ground  for  any 
use  in  the  Park,  and  its  transportation  into  lakes 
and  as  foundations  for  flowery  garden  meadows 
was  the  first  work  that  the  young  rivers  were 
called  on  to  do.  Bogs  occur  only  in  shallow 
alpine  basins  where  the  climate  is  cool  enough 
for  sphagnum,  and  where  the  surrounding  topo- 
graphical conditions  are  such  that  they  are  safe, 
even  in  the  most  copious  rains  and  thaws,  from 
the  action  of  flood  currents  capable  of  carrying 
rough  gravel  and  sand,  but  where  the  water 
supply  is  nevertheless  constant.  The  mosses 
dying  from  year  to  year  gradually  give  rise  to 
those  rich  spongy  peat-beds  in  which  so  many  of 
our  best  alpine  plants  delight  to  dwell.  The 
strong  winds  that  occasionally  sweep  the  high 
Sierra  play  a  more  important  part  in  the  distri- 
bution of  special  soil-beds  than  is  at  first  sight 
recognized,  carrying  forward  considerable  quan- 
tities of  sand  and  gravel,  flakes  of  mica,  etc.,  and 
depositing  them  in  fields  and  beds  beautifully 
ruffled  and  embroidered  and  adapted  to  the  wants 
of  some  of  the  hardiest  and  handsomest  of  the 
alpine  shrubs  and  flowers.  The  more  resisting 
of  the  smooth,  solid,  glacier-polished  domes  and 
ridges  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  any  soil  at  all, 


140  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

while  others  beginning  to  give  way  to  the  wea- 
ther are  thinly  sprinkled  with  coarse  angular 
gravel.  Some  of  them  are  full  of  crystals/which 
as  the  surface  of  the  rock  is  decomposed  are  set 
free,  covering  the  summits  and  rolling  down  the 
sides  in  minute  avalanches,  giving  rise  to  zones 
and  beds  of  crystalline  soil.  In  some  instances 
the  various  crystals  occur  only  here  and  there, 
sprinkled  in  the  gray  gravel  like  daisies  in  a 
sod ;  but  in  others  half  or  more  is  made  up  of 
crystals,  and  the  glow  of  the  imbedded  or  loosely 
strewn  gems  and  their  colored  gleams  and  glint- 
ings  at  different  times  of  the  day  when  the  sun 
is  shining  might  well  exhilarate  the  flowers  that 
grow  among  them,  and  console  them  for  being 
so  completely  outshone. 

These  radiant  sheets  and  belts  and  dome-en- 
circling rings  of  crystals  are  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  Sierra  soil-beds,  while  the  huge  taluses 
ranged  along  the  walls  of  the  great  canons  are 
the  deepest  and  roughest.  Instead  of  being 
slowly  weathered  and  accumulated  from  the 
cliffs  overhead  like  common  taluses,  they  were 
all  formed  suddenly  and  simultaneously  by  an 
earthquake  that  occurred  at  least  three  centuries 
ago.  Though  thus  hurled  into  existence  at  a 
single  effort,  they  are  the  least  changeable  and 
destructible  of  all  the  soil  formations  in  the 
range.  Excepting  those  which  were  launched 
directly  into  the  channels  of  rivers,  scarcely  one 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    141 

of  their  wedged  and  interlocked  boulders  has 
been  moved  since  the  day  of  their  creation,  and 
though  mostly  made  up  of  huge  angular  blocks 
of  granite,  many  of  them  from  ten  to  fifty  feet 
cube,  trees  and  shrubs  make  out  to  live  and 
thrive  on  them,  and  even  delicate  herbaceous 
plants,  —  draperia,  collomia,  zauschneria,  etc.,  — 
soothing  their  rugged  features  with  gardens  and 
groves.  In  general  views  of  the  Park  scarce  a 
hint  is  given  of  its  floral  wealth.  Only  by  pa- 
tiently, lovingly  sauntering  about  in  it  will  you 
discover  that  it  is  all  more  or  less  flowery,  the 
forests  as  well  as  the  open  spaces,  and  the  moun- 
tain tops  and  rugged  slopes  around  the  glaciers 
as  well  as  the  sunny  meadows. 

Even  the  majestic  canon  cliffs,  seemingly  ab- 
solutely flawless  for  thousands  of  feet  and  neces- 
sarily doomed  to  eternal  sterility,  are  cheered 
with  happy  flowers  on  invisible  niches  and  ledges 
wherever  the  slightest  grip  for  a  root  can  be 
found;  as  if  Nature,  like  an  enthusiastic  gar- 
dener, could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  plant 
flowers  everywhere.  On  high,  dry  rocky  sum- 
mits and  plateaus,  most  of  the  plants  are  so  small 
they  make  but  little  show  even  when  in  bloom. 
But  in  the  opener  parts  of  the  main  forests,  the 
meadows,  stream  banks,  and  the  level  floors  of 
Yosemite  valleys  the  vegetation  is  exceedingly 
rich  in  flowers,  some  of  the  lilies  and  larkspurs 
being  from  eight  to  ten  feet  high.  And  on  the 


142  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

upper  meadows  there  are  miles  of  blue  gentians 
and  daisies,  white  and  blue  violets ;  and  great 
breadths  of  rosy  purple  heathworts  covering 
rocky  moraines  with  a  marvelous  abundance  of 
bloom,  enlivened  by  humming-birds,  butterflies 
and  a  host  of  other  insects  as  beautiful  as  flow- 
ers. In  the  lower  and  middle  regions,  also,  many 
of  the  most  extensive  beds  of  bloom  are  in  great 
part  made  by  shrubs,  —  adenostoma,  manzanita, 
ceanothus,  chamsebatia,  cherry,  rose,  rubus,  spi- 
raea, shad,  laurel,  azalea,  honeysuckle,  calycan- 
thus,  ribes,  philadelphus,  and  many  others,  the 
sunny  spaces  about  them  bright  and  fragrant 
with  mints,  lupines,  geraniums,  lilies,  daisies, 
goldenrods,  castilleias,  gilias,  pentstemons,  etc. 

Adenostoma  fasciculatum  is  a  handsome, 
hardy,  heathlike  shrub  belonging  to  the  rose 
family,  flourishing  on  dry  ground  below  the  pine 
belt,  and  often  covering  areas  of  twenty  or  thirty 
square  miles  of  rolling  sun-beaten  hills  and  dales 
with  a  dense,  dark  green,  almost  impenetrable 
chaparral,  which  in  the  distance  looks  like  Scotch 
heather.  It  is  about  six  to  eight  feet  high,  has 
slender  elastic  branches,  red  shreddy  bark,  needle- 
shaped  leaves,  and  small  white  flowers  in  panicles 
about  a  foot  long,  making  glorious  sheets  of  fra- 
grant bloom  in  the  spring.  To  running  fires  it 
offers  no  resistance,  vanishing  with  the  few 
other  flowery  shrubs  and  vines  and  liliaceous 
plants  that  grow  with  it  about  as  fast  as  dry 


WILD  GARDENS  OF   THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    143 

grass,  leaving  nothing  but  ashes.  But  with 
wonderful  vigor  it  rises  again  and  again  in  fresh 
beauty  from  the  root,  and  calls  back  to  its  hos- 
pitable mansions  the  multitude  of  wild  animals 
that  had  to  flee  for  their  lives. 

As  soon  as  you  enter  the  pine  woods  you 
meet  the  charming  little  Chamaebatia  foliolosa, 
one  of  the  handsomest  of  the  Park  shrubs,  next 
in  fineness  and  beauty  to  the  heathworts  of  the 
alpine  regions.  Like  adenostoma  it  belongs  to 
the  rose  family,  is  from  twelve  to  eighteen  inches 
high,  has  brown  bark,  slender  branches,  white 
flowers  like  those  of  the  strawberry,  and  thrice- 
pinnate  glandular,  yellow-green  leaves,  finely 
cut  and  fernlike,  as  if  unusual  pains  had  been 
taken  in  fashioning  them.  Where  there  is 
plenty  of  sunshine  at  an  elevation  of  three  thou- 
sand to  six  thousand  feet,  it  makes  a  close,  con- 
tinuous growth,  leaf  touching  leaf  over  hundreds 
of  acres,  spreading  a  handsome  mantle  beneath 
the  yellow  and  sugar  pines.  Here  and  there  a  lily 
rises  above  it,  an  arching  bunch  of  tall  bromus, 
and  at  wide  intervals  a  rosebush  or  clump  of 
ceanothus  or  manzanita,  but  there  are  no  rough 
weeds  mixed  with  it,  —  no  roughness  of  any 
sort. 

Perhaps  the  most  widely  distributed  of  all  the 
Park  shrubs  and  of  the  Sierra  in  general,  cer- 
tainly the  most  strikingly  characteristic,  are  the 
many  species  of  manzanita  (Arctostaphylos). 


144  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Though  one  species,  the  Uva-ursa,  or  bearberry, 
—  the  kinikinic  of  the  Western  Indians,  —  ex- 
tends around  the  world,  the  greater  part  of  them 
are  Californian.  They  are  mostly  from  four  to 
ten  feet  high,  round-headed,  with  innumerable 
branches,  brown  or  red  bark,  pale  green  leaves 
set  on  edge,  and  a  rich  profusion  of  small,  pink, 
narrow-throated,  urn-shaped  flowers  like  those 
of  arbutus.  The  branches  are  knotty,  zigzaggy, 
and  about  as  rigid  as  bones,  and  the  bark  is  so 
thin  and  smooth,  both  trunk  and  branches  seem 
to  be  naked,  looking  as  if  they  had  been  peeled, 
polished,  and  painted  red.  The  wood  also  is  red, 
hard,  and  heavy. 

These  grand  bushes  seldom  fail  to  engage  the 
attention  of  the  traveler  and  hold  it,  especially 
if  he  has  to  pass  through  closely  planted  fields 
of  them  such  as  grow  on  moraine  slopes  at  an 
elevation  of  about  seven  thousand  feet,  and  in 
canons  choked  with  earthquake  boulders ;  for 
they  make  the  most  uncompromisingly  stubborn 
of  all  chaparral.  Even  bears  take  pains  to  go 
around  the  stoutest  patches  if  possible,  and  when 
compelled  to  force  a  passage  leave  tufts  of  hair 
and  broken  branches  to  mark  their  way,  while 
less  skillful  mountaineers  under  like  circum- 
stances sometimes  lose  most  of  their  clothing  and 
all  their  temper. 

The  manzanitas  like  sunny  ground.  On  warm 
ridges  and  sandy  flats  at  the  foot  of  sun-beaten 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    145 

canon  cliffs,  some  of  the  tallest  specimens  have 
well-defined  trunks  six  inches  to  a  foot  or  more 
thick,  and  stand  apart  in  orchard-like  growths 
which  in  bloomtime  are  among  the  finest  gar- 
den sights  in  the  Park.  The  largest  I  ever  saw 
had  a  round,  slightly  fluted  trunk  nearly  four 
feet  in  diameter,  which  at  a  height  of  only  eigh- 
teen inches  from  the  ground  dissolved  into  a 
wilderness  of  branches,  rising  and  spreading  to 
a  height  and  width  of  about  twelve  feet.  In 
spring  every  bush  over  all  the  mountains  is  cov- 
ered with  rosy  flowers,  in  autumn  with  fruit. 
The  red  pleasantly  acid  berries,  about  the  size 
of  peas,  'are  like  little  apples,  and  the  hungry 
mountaineer  is  glad  to  eat  them,  though  half 
their  bulk  is  made  up  of  hard  seeds.  Indians, 
bears,  coyotes,  foxes,  birds,  and  other  mountain 
people  live  on  them  for  months. 

Associated  with  manzanita  there  are  six  or 
seven  species  of  ceanothus,  flowery,  fragrant, 
and  altogether  delightful  shrubs,  growing  in 
glorious  abundance  in  the  forests  on  sunny  or 
half -shaded  ground,  up  to  an  elevation  of  about 
nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  In  the  sugar- 
pine  woods  the  most  beautiful  species  is  C. 
integerrimus,  often  called  California  lilac,  or 
deer  brush.  It  is  five  or  six  feet  high,  smooth, 
slender,  willowy,  with  bright  foliage  and  abund- 
ance of  blue  flowers  in  close,  showy  panicles. 
Two  species,  prostatus  and  procumbens,  spread 


146  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS. 

handsome  blue-flowered  mats  and  rugs  on  warm 
ridges  beneath  the  pines,  and  offer  delightful 
beds  to  the  tired  mountaineers.  The  common- 
est species,  C.  cordulatus,  is  mostly  restricted  to 
the  silver  fir  belt.  It  is  white-flowered  and 
thorny,  and  makes  extensive  thickets  of  tangled 
chaparral,  far  too  dense  to  wade  through,  and 
too  deep  and  loose  to  walk  on,  though  it  is 
pressed  flat  every  winter  by  ten  or  fifteen  feet  of 
snow. 

Above  these  thorny  beds,  sometimes  mixed 
with  them,  a  very  wild,  red-fruited  cherry  grows 
in  magnificent  tangles,  fragrant  and  white  as 
snow  when  in  bloom.  The  fruit  is  small  and 
rather  bitter,  not  so  good  as  the  black,  puckery 
chokecherry  that  grows  in  the  canons,  but 
thrushes,  robins,  chipmunks  like  it.  Below  the 
cherry  tangles,  chinquapin  and  goldcup  oak 
spread  generous  mantles  of  chaparral,  and  with 
hazel  and  ribes  thickets  in  adjacent  glens  help 
to  clothe  and  adorn  the  rocky  wilderness,  and 
produce  food  for  the  many  mouths  Nature  has 
to  fill.  Azalea  occidentalis  is  the  glory  of  cool 
streams  and  meadows.  It  is  from  two  to  five  feet 
high,  has  bright  green  leaves  and  a  rich  profu- 
sion of  large,  fragrant  white  and  yellow  flowers, 
which  are  in  prime  beauty  in  June,  July,  and 
August,  according  to  the  elevation  (from  three 
thousand  to  six  thousand  feet.)  Only  the  pur- 
ple-flowered rhododendron  of  the  redwood  for- 


AZALEA  THICKET,  VOSEMITE 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    147 

ests  rivals  or  surpasses  it  in  superb  abounding 
bloom. 

Back  a  little  way  from  the  azalea-bordered 
streams,  a  small  wild  rose  makes  thickets,  often 
several  acres  in  extent,  deliciously  fragrant  on 
dewy  mornings  and  after  showers,  the  fragrance 
mingled  with  the  music  of  birds  nesting  in  them. 
And  not  far  from  these  rose  gardens  Rubus 
Nutkanus  covers  the  ground  with  broad  velvety 
leaves  and  pure  white  flowers  as  large  as  those 
of  its  neighbor  the  rose,  and  finer  in  texture  ; 
followed  at  the  end  of  summer  by  soft  red  berries 
good  for  bird  and  beast  and  man  also.  This  is 
the  commonest  and  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
whole  blessed  flowery  fruity  genus. 

The  glory  of  the  alpine  region  in  bloomtime 
are  the  heathworts,  cassiope,  bryanthus,  kalmia, 
and  vaccinium,  enriched  here  and  there  by  the 
alpine  honeysuckle,  Lonicera  conjugialis,  and 
by  the  purple-flowered  Primula  suffruticosa,  the 
only  primrose  discovered  in  California,  and  the 
only  shrubby  species  in  the  genus.  The  lowly, 
hardy,  adventurous  cassiope  has  exceedingly  slen- 
der creeping  branches,  scalelike  leaves,  and  pale 
pink  or  white  waxen  bell  flowers.  Few  plants, 
large  or  small,  so  well  endure  hard  weather  and 
rough  ground  over  so  great  a  range.  In  July  it 
spreads  a  wavering,  interrupted  belt  of  the  love- 
liest bloom  around  glacier  lakes  and  meadows 
and  across  wild  moory  expanses,  between  roar- 


148  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  streams,  all  along  the  Sierra,  and  northward 
beneath  cold  skies  by  way  of  the  mountain 
chains  of  Oregon,  Washington,  British  Colum- 
bia, and  Alaska,  to  the  Arctic  regions ;  gradu- 
ally descending,  until  at  the  north  end  of  the 
continent  it  reaches  the  level  of  the  sea ;  bloom- 
ing as  profusely  and  at  about  the  same  time 
on  mossy  frozen  tundras  as  on  the  high  Sierra 
moraines. 

Bryanthus,  the  companion  of  cassiope,  accom- 
panies it  as  far  north  as  southeastern  Alaska, 
where  together  they  weave  thick  plushy  beds  on 
rounded  mountain  tops  above  the  glaciers.  It 
grows  mostly  at  slightly  lower  elevations ;  the 
upper  margin  of  what  may  be  called  the  bryan- 
thus  belt  in  the  Sierra  uniting  with  and  overlap- 
ping the  lower  margin  of  the  cassiope.  The 
wide  bell-shaped  flowers  are  bright  purple,  about 
three  fourths  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  hundreds 
to  the  square  yard,  the  young  branches,  mostly 
erect,  being  covered  with  them.  No  Highlander 
in  heather  enjoys  more  luxurious  rest  than  the 
Sierra  mountaineer  in  a  bed  of  blooming  bryan- 
thus.  And  imagine  the  show  on  calm  dewy 
mornings,  when  there  is  a  radiant  globe  in  the 
throat  of  every  flower,  and  smaller  gems  on  the 
needle-shaped  leaves,  the  sunbeams  pouring 
through  them. 

In  the  same  wild,  cold  region  the  tiny  Vacci- 
nium  myrtillus,  mixed  with  kalmia  and  dwarf 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    149 

willows,  spreads  thinner  carpets,  the  down- 
pressed  matted  leaves  profusely  sprinkled  with 
pink  bells  ;  and  on  higher  sandy  slopes  you  will 
find  several  alpine  species  of  eriogonum  with 
gorgeous  bossy  masses  of  yellow  bloom,  and  the 
lovely  Arctic  daisy  with  many  blessed  compan- 
ions; charming  plants,  gentle  mountaineers, 
Nature's  darlings,  which  seem  always  the  finer 
the  higher  and  stormier  their  homes. 

Many  interesting  ferns  are  distributed  over 
the  Park  from  the  foothills  to  a  little  above  the 
timber  line.  The  greater  number  are  rock  ferns, 
pellsea,  cheilanthes,  polypodium,  adiantum,  wood- 
sia,  cryptogramme,  etc.,  with  small  tufted  fronds, 
lining  glens  and  gorges  and  fringing  the  cliffs 
and  moraines.  The  most  important  of  the 
larger  species  are  woodwardia,  aspidium,  asple- 
nium,  and  the  common  pteris.  Woodwardia 
radicans  is  a  superb  fern  five  to  eight  feet  high, 
growing  in  vaselike  clumps  where  the  ground  is 
level,  and  on  slopes  in  a  regular  thatch,  frond 
over  frond,  like  shingles  on  a  roof.  Its  range 
in  the  Park  is  from  the  western  boundary  up  to 
about  five  thousand  feet,  mostly  on  benches  of 
the  north  walls  of  canons  watered  by  small  out- 
spread streams.  It  is  far  more  abundant  in  the 
Coast  Mountains  beneath  the  noble  redwoods, 
where  it  attains  a  height  of  ten  to  twelve  feet. 
The  aspidiums  are  mostly  restricted  to  the  moist 
parts  of  the  lower  forests,  Asplenium  filix-foa- 


150  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

mina  to  marshy  streams.  The  hardy,  broad- 
shouldered  Pteris  aquilina,  the  commonest  of 
ferns,  grows  tall  and  graceful  on  sunny  flats  and 
hillsides,  at  elevations  between  three  thousand 
and  six  thousand  feet.  Those  who  know  it  only 
in  the  Eastern  states  can  form  no  fair  conception 
of  its  stately  beauty  in  the  sunshine  of  the  Si- 
erra. On  the  level  sandy  floors  of  Yosemite 
valleys  it  often  attains  a  height  of  six  to  eight 
feet  in  fields  thirty  or  forty  acres  in  extent,  the 
magnificent  fronds  outspread  in  a  nearly  hori- 
zontal position,  forming  a  ceiling  beneath  which 
one  may  walk  erect  in  delightful  mellow  shade. 
No  other  fern  does  so  much  for  the  color  glory 
of  autumn,  with  its  browns  and  reds  and  yellows 
changing  and  interblending.  Even  after  lying 
dead  all  winter  beneath  the  snow  it  spreads  a 
lively  brown  mantle  over  the  desolate  ground, 
until  the  young  fronds  with  a  noble  display  of 
faith  and  hope  come  rolling  up  into  the  light 
through  the  midst  of  the  beautiful  ruins.  A 
few  weeks  sufiice  for  their  development,  then, 
gracefully  poised  each  in  its  place,  they  manage 
themselves  in  every  exigency  of  weather  as  if 
they  had  passed  through  a  long  course  of  train- 
ing. I  have  seen  solemn  old  sugar  pines  thrown 
into  momentary  confusion  by  the  sudden  onset 
of  a  storm,  tossing  their  arms  excitedly  as  if 
scarce  awake,  and  wondering  what  had  happened, 
but  I  never  noticed  surprise  or  embarrassment  in 
the  behavior  of  this  noble  pteris. 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    151 

Of  five  species  of  pellsea  in  the  Park,  the 
handsome  andromedaefolia,  growing  in  brushy 
foothills  with  Adiantum  emarginatum,  is  the 
largest.  P.  Breweri,  the  hardiest  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  fragile  of  the  genus,  grows 
in  dense  tufts  among  rocks  on  storm-beaten 
mountain  sides  along  the  upper  margin  of  the 
fern  line.  It  is  a  charming  little  fern,  four  or 
five  inches  high,  has  shining  bronze-colored  stalks 
which  are  about  as  brittle  as  glass,  and  pale 
green  pinnate  fronds.  Its  companions  on  the 
lower  part  of  its  range  are  Cryptogramme  acros- 
tichoides  and  Phegopteris  alpestris,  the  latter 
soft  and  tender,  not  at  all  like  a  rock  fern, 
though  it  grows  on  rocks  where  the  snow  lies 
longest.  P.  Bridgesii,  with  blue-green,  narrow, 
simply  pinnate  fronds,  is  about  the  same  size 
as  Breweri  and  ranks  next  to  it  as  a  moun- 
taineer, growing  in  fissures  and  around  boulders 
on  glacier  pavements.  About  a  thousand  feet 
lower  we  find  the  smaller  and  more  abundant  P. 
densa,  on  ledges  and  boulder-strewn  fissured 
pavements,  watered  until  late  in  summer  by  ooz- 
ing currents  from  snow-banks  or  thin  outspread 
streams  from  moraines,  growing  in  close  sods, 
—  its  little  bright  green  triangular  tripinnate 
fronds,  about  an  inch  in  length,  as  innumerable 
as  leaves  of  grass.  P.  ornithopus  has  twice  or 
thrice  pinnate  fronds,  is  dull  in  color,  and  dwells 
an  hot  rocky  hillsides  among  chaparral. 


152  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Three  species  of  Cheilanthes,  —  Californica, 
gracillima,  and  myriophylla,  with  beautiful  two 
to  four  pinnate  fronds,  an  inch  to  five  inches 
long,  adorn  the  stupendous  walls  of  the  canons, 
however  dry  and  sheer.  The  exceedingly  deli- 
cate and  interesting  Californica  is  rare,  the 
others  abundant  at  from  three  thousand  to  seven 
thousand  feet  elevation,  and  are  often  accom- 
panied by  the  little  gold  fern,  Gynmogramme 
triangularis,  and  rarely  by  the  curious  little 
Botrychium  simplex,  the  smallest  of  which  are 
less  than  an  inch  high. 

The  finest  of  all  the  rock  ferns  is  Adiantum 
pedatum,  lover  of  waterfalls  and  the  lightest 
waftings  of  irised  spray.  No  other  Sierra  fern 
is  so  constant  a  companion  of  white  spray-covered 
streams,  or  tells  so  well  their  wild  thundering 
music.  The  homes  it  loves  best  are  cave-like 
hollows  beside  the  main  falls,  where  it  can  float 
its  plumes  on  their  dewy  breath,  safely  sheltered 
from  the  heavy  spray-laden  blasts.  Many  of 
these  moss-lined  chambers,  so  cool,  so  moist, 
and  brightly  colored  with  rainbow  light,  contain 
thousands  of  these  happy  ferns,  clinging  to  the 
emerald  walls  by  the  slightest  holds,  reaching 
out  the  most  wonderfully  delicate  fingered  fronds 
on  dark  glossy  stalks,  sensitive,  tremulous,  all 
alive,  in  an  attitude  of  eager  attention ;  throb- 
bing in  unison  with  every  motion  and  tone  of 
the  resounding  waters,  compliant  to  their  faint- 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    153 

est  impulses,  moving  each  division  of  the  frond 
separately  at  times  as  if  fingering  the  music, 
playing  on  invisible  keys. 

Considering  the  lilies  as  you  go  up  the  moun- 
tains, the  first  you  come  to  is  L.  Pardalinum, 
with  large  orange-yellow,  purple-spotted  flowers 
big  enough  for  babies'  bonnets.  It  is  seldom 
found  higher  than  thirty-five  hundred  feet  above 
the  sea,  grows  in  magnificent  groups  of  fifty  to 
a  hundred  or  more,  in  romantic  waterfall  dells 
in  the  pine  woods  shaded  by  overarching  maple 
and  willow,  alder  and  dogwood,  with  bushes  in 
front  of  the  embowering  trees  for  a  border,  and 
ferns  and  sedges  in  front  of  the  bushes ;  while 
the  bed  of  black  humus  in  which  the  bulbs 
are  set  is  carpeted  with  mosses  and  liverworts. 
These  richly  furnished  lily  gardens  are  the  pride 
of  the  falls  on  the  lower  tributaries  of  the  Tuol- 
umne  and  Merced  rivers,  falls  not  like  those  of 
Yosemite  valleys,  —  coming  from  the  sky  with 
rock-shaking  thunder  tones,  —  but  small,  with 
low,  kind  voices  cheerily  singing  in  calm  leafy 
bowers,  self-contained,  keeping  their  snowy 
skirts  well  about  them,  yet  furnishing  plenty 
of  spray  for  the  lilies. 

The  Washington  lily  (L.  Washingtonianum) 
is  white,  deliciously  fragrant,  moderate  in  size, 
with  three  to  ten  flowered  racemes.  The  largest 
I  ever  measured  was  eight  feet  high,  the  raceme 
two  feet  long,  with  fifty-two  flowers,  fifteen  of 


154  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

them  open  ;  the  others  had  faded  or  were  still  in 
the  bud.  This  famous  lily  is  distributed  over 
the  sunny  portions  of  the  sugar-pine  woods,  never 
in  large  garden  companies  like  pardalinum,  but 
widely  scattered,  standing  up  to  the  waist  in 
dense  ceanothus  and  manzanita  chaparral,  waving 
its  lovely  flowers  above  the  blooming  wilderness 
of  brush,  and  giving  their  fragrance  to  the 
breeze.  These  stony,  thorny  jungles  are  about 
the  last  places  in  the  mountains  in  which  one 
would  look  for  lilies.  But  though  they  toil  not 
nor  spin,  like  other  people  under  adverse  circum- 
stances, they  have  to  do  the  best  they  can.  Be- 
cause their  large  bulbs  are  good  to  eat  they  are 
dug  up  by  Indians  and  bears;  therefore,  like 
hunted  animals,  they  seek  refuge  in  the  chapar- 
ral, where  among  the  boulders  and  tough  tangled 
roots  they  are  comparatively  safe.  This  is  the 
favorite  Sierra  lily,  and  it  is  now  growing  in  all 
the  best  parks  and  gardens  of  the  world. 

The  showiest  gardens  in  the  Park  lie  imbedded 
in  the  silver  fir  forests  on  the  top  of  the  main 
dividing  ridges  or  hang  like  gayly  colored  scarfs 
down  their  sides.  Their  wet  places  are  in  great 
part  taken  up  by  veratrum,  a  robust  broad-leaved 
plant  determined  to  be  seen,  and  habenaria  and 
spiranthes;  the  drier  parts  by  tall  columbines, 
larkspurs,  castilleias,  lupines,  hosackias,  erigerons, 
valerian,  etc.,  standing  deep  in  grass,  with  violets 
here  and  there  around  the  borders.  But  the 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    155 

finest  feature  of  these  forest  gardens  is  Lilium 
parvum.  It  varies  greatly  in  size,  the  tallest 
being  from  six  to  nine  feet  high,  with  splendid 
racemes  of  ten  to  fifty  small  orange-colored  flow- 
ers, which  rock  and  wave  with  great  dignity 
above  the  other  flowers  in  the  infrequent  winds 
that  fall  over  the  protecting  wall  of  trees. 
Though  rather  frail-looking  it  is  strong,  reaching 
prime  vigor  and  beauty  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  and  in  some  places  venturing  as  high  as 
eleven  thousand. 

Calochortus,  or  Mariposa  tulip,  is  a  unique 
genus  of  many  species  confined  to  the  California 
side  of  the  continent ;  charming  plants,  somewhat 
resembling  the  tulips  of  Europe,  but  far  finer. 
The  richest  calochortus  region  lies  below  the 
western  boundary  of  the  Park ;  still  five  or  six 
species  are  included.  C.  NuttaUii  is  common  on 
moraines  in  the  forests  of  the  two-leaved  pine; 
and  C.  cseruleus  and  nudus,  very  slender,  lowly 
species,  may  be  found  in  moist  garden  spots  near 
Yosemite.  C.  albus,  with  pure  white  flowers, 
growing  in  shady  places  among  the  foothill 
shrubs,  is,  I  think,  the  very  loveliest  of  all  the 
lily  family,  —  a  spotless  soul,  plant  saint,  that 
every  one  must  love  and  so  be  made  better.  It 
puts  the  wildest  mountaineer  on  his  good  behav- 
ior. With  this  plant  the  whole  world  would  seem 
rich  though  none  other  existed.  Next  after  Calo- 
chortus, Brodiaea  is  the  most  interesting  genus. 


156  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Nearly  all  the  many  species  have  beautiful  showy 
heads  of  blue,  lilac,  and  yellow  flowers,  enriching 
the  gardens  of  the  lower  pine  region.  Other 
liliaceous  plants  likely  to  attract  attention  are 
the  blue-flowered  camassia,  the  bulbs  of  which 
are  prized  as  food  by  Indians ;  f  ritillaria,  smila- 
cina,  chloragalum,  and  the  twining  climbing  stro- 
pholirion. 

The  common  orchidaceous  plants  are  corallo- 
rhiza,  goodyera,  spiranthes,  and  habenaria.  Cy- 
pripedium  montanum,  the  only  moccasin  flower 
I  have  seen  in  the  Park,  is  a  handsome,  thought- 
ful-looking plant  living  beside  cool  brooks.  The 
large  oval  lip  is  white,  delicately  veined  with 
purple  ;  the  other  petals  and  sepals  purple,  strap- 
shaped,  and  elegantly  curved  and  twisted. 

To  tourists  the  most  attractive  of  all  the  flow- 
ers of  the  forest  is  the  snow  plant  (Sar codes  san- 
guinea).  It  is  a  bright  red,  fleshy,  succulent 
pillar  that  pushes  up  through  the  dead  needles 
in  the  pine  and  fir  woods  like  a  gigantic  aspara- 
gus shoot.  The  first  intimation  of  its  coming  is 
a  loosening  and  upbulging  of  the  brown  stratum 
of  decomposed  needles  on  the  forest  floor,  in  the 
cracks  of  which  you  notice  fiery  gleams;  pre- 
sently a  blunt  dome-shaped  head  an  inch  or  two 
in  diameter  appears,  covered  with  closely  imbri- 
cated scales  and  bracts.  In  a  week  or  so  it 
grows  to  a  height  of  six  to  twelve  inches.  Then 
the  long  fringed  bracts  spread  and  curl  aside, 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    157 

allowing  the  twenty  or  thirty  five-lobed  bell- 
shaped  flowers  to  open  and  look  straight  out 
from  the  fleshy  axis.  It  is  said  to  grow  up 
through  the  snow ;  on  the  contrary  it  always 
waits  until  the  ground  is  warm,  though  with 
other  early  flowers  it  is  occasionally  buried  or 
half  buried  for  a  day  or  two  by  spring  storms. 
The  entire  plant  —  flowers,  bracts,  stem,  scales, 
and  roots  —  is  red.  But  notwithstanding  its 
glowing  color  and  beautiful  flowers,  it  is  singu- 
larly unsympathetic  and  cold.  Everybody  ad- 
mires it  as  a  wonderful  curiosity,  but  nobody 
loves  it.  Without  fragrance,  rooted  in  decaying 
vegetable  matter,  it  stands  beneath  the  pines  and 
firs  lonely,  silent,  and  about  as  rigid  as  a  grave- 
yard monument. 

Down  in  the  main  canons  adjoining  the  azalea 
and  rose  gardens  there  are  fine  beds  of  herba- 
ceous plants,  —  tall  mints  and  sunflowers,  iris, 
oenothera,  brodia3a,  and  bright  beds  of  erythrsea 
on  the  ferny  meadpws.  Bolandera,  sedum,  and 
airy,  feathery,  purple-flowered  heuchera  adorn 
mossy  nooks  near  falls,  the  shading  trees  wreathed 
and  festooned  with  wild  grapevines  and  clematis ; 
while  lightly  shaded  flats  are  covered  with  gilia 
and  eunanus  of  many  species,  hosackia,  arnica, 
cbaenactis,  gayophytum,  gnaphalium,  monardella, 
etc. 

Thousands  of  the  most  interesting  gardens  in 
the  Park  are  never  seen,  for  they  are  small  and 


158  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

lie  far  up  on  ledges  and  terraces  of  the  sheer 
canon  walls,  wherever  a  strip  of  soil,  however 
narrow  and  shallow,  can  rest.  The  birds,  winds, 
and  down-washing  rains  have  planted  them  with 
all  sorts  of  hardy  mountain  flowers,  and  where 
there  is  sufficient  moisture  they  flourish  in  pro- 
fusion. Many  of  them  are  watered  by  little 
streams  that  seem  lost  on  the  tremendous  preci- 
pices, clinging  to  the  face  of  the  rock  in  lacelike 
strips,  and  dripping  from  ledge  to  ledge,  too 
silent  to  be  called  falls,  pathless  wanderers  from 
the  upper  meadows,  which  for  centuries  have 
been  seeking  a  way  down  to  the  rivers  they  be- 
long to,  without  having  worn  as  yet  any  appre- 
ciable channel,  mostly  evaporated  or  given  to  the 
plants  they  meet  before  reaching  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs.  To  these  unnoticed  streams  the  finest  of 
the  cliff  gardens  owe  their  luxuriance  and  fresh- 
ness of  beauty.  In  the  larger  ones  ferns  and 
showy  flowers  flourish  in  wonderful  profusion, 
—  woodwardia,  columbine,  collomia,  castilleia, 
draperia,  geranium,  erythraea,  pink  and  scarlet 
mimulus,  hosackia,  saxifrage,  sunflowers  and 
daisies,  with  azalea,  spiraa,  and  calycanthus,  a 
few  specimens  of  each  that  seem  to  have  been 
culled  from  the  large  gardens  above  and  beneath 
them.  Even  lilies  are  occasionally  found  in  these 
irrigated  cliff  gardens,  swinging  their  bells  over 
the  giddy  precipices,  seemingly  as  happy  as  their 
relatives  down  in  the  waterfall  dells.  Most  of 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    159 

the  cliff  gardens,  however,  are  dependent  on 
summer  showers,  and  though  from  the  shallow- 
ness  of  the  soil  beds  they  are  often  dry,  they  still 
display  a  surprising  number  of  bright  flowers,  — 
scarlet  zauschneria,  purple  bush  penstemon,  mints, 
gilias,  and  bosses  of  glowing  golden  bahia.  Nor 
is  there  any  lack  of  commoner  plants ;  the  homely 
yarrow  is  often  found  in  them,  and  sweet  clover 
and  honeysuckle  for  the  bees. 

In  the  upper  canons,  where  the  walls  are  in- 
clined at  so  low  an  angle  that  they  are  loaded 
with  moraine  material,  through  which  perennial 
streams  percolate  in  broad  diffused  currents, 
there  are  long  wavering  garden  beds,  that  seem 
to  be  descending  through  the  forest  like  cascades, 
their  fluent  lines  suggesting  motion,  swaying 
from  side  to  side  of  the  forested  banks,  surging 
up  here  and  there  over  island-like  boulder  piles, 
or  dividing  and  flowing  around  them.  In  some 
of  these  floral  cascades  the  vegetation  is  chiefly 
sedges  and  grasses  ruffled  with  willows ;  in  others, 
showy  flowers  like  those  of  the  lily  gardens  on 
the  main  divides.  Another  curious  and  pictu- 
resque series  of  wall  gardens  are  made  by  thin 
streams  that  ooze  slowly  from  moraines  and  slip 
gently  over  smooth  glaciated  slopes.  From  par- 
ticles of  sand. and  mud  they  carry,  a  pair  of  lobe- 
shaped  sheets  of  soil  an  inch  or  two  thick  are 
gradually  formed,  one  of  them  hanging  down 
from  the  brow  of  the  slope,  the  other  leaning  up 


160  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

from  the  foot  of  it,  like  stalactite  and  stalagmite, 
the  soil  being  held  together  by  the  flowery, 
moisture-loving  plants  growing  in  it. 

Along  the  rocky  parts  of  the  canon  bottoms 
between  lake  basins,  where  the  streams  flow  fast 
over  glacier-polished  granite,  there  are  rows  of 
pothole  gardens  full  of  ferns,  daisies,  golden- 
rods,  and  other  common  plants  of  the  neigh- 
borhood nicely  arranged  like  bouquets,  and 
standing  out  in  telling  relief  on  the  bare  shining 
rock  banks.  And  all  the  way  up  the  canons  to 
the  Summit  mountains,  wherever  there  is  soil  of 
any  sort,  there  is  no  lack  of  flowers,  however 
short  the  summer  may  be.  Within  eight  or  ten 
feet  of  a  snow  bank  lingering  beneath  a  shadow, 
you  may  see  belated  ferns  unrolling  their  fronds 
in  September,  and  sedges  hurrying  up  their 
brown  spikes  on  ground  that  has  been  free  from 
snow  only  eight  or  ten  days,  and  likely  to  be 
covered  again  within  a  few  weeks ;  the  winter  in 
the  coolest  of  these  shadow  gardens  being  about 
eleven  months  long,  while  spring,  summer,  and 
autumn  are  hurried  and  crowded  into  one  month. 
Again,  under  favorable  conditions,  alpine  gar- 
dens three  or  four  thousand  feet  higher  than  the 
last  are  in  their  prime  in  June.  Between  the 
Summit  peaks  at  the  head  of  the  canons  sur- 
prising effects  are  produced  where  the  sunshine 
falls  direct  on  rocky  slopes  and  reverberates 
among  boulders.  Toward  the  end  of  August,  in 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    161 

one  of  these  natural  hothouses  on  the  north 
shore  of  a  glacier  lake  11,500  feet  above  the  sea, 
I  found  a  luxuriant  growth  of  hairy  lupines, 
thistles,  goldenrods,  shrubby  potentilla,  spraguea, 
and  the  mountain  epilobium  with  thousands  of 
purple  flowers  an  inch  wide,  while  the  opposite 
shore,  at  a  distance  of  only  three  hundred  yards, 
was  bound  in  heavy  avalanche  snow, — flowery 
summer  on  one  side,  winter  on  the  other.  And 
I  know  a  bench  garden  on  the  north  wall  of 
Yosemite  in  which  a  few  flowers  are  in  bloom  all 
winter ;  the  massive  rocks  about  it  storing  up 
sunshine  enough  in  summer  to  melt  the  snow 
about  as  fast  as  it  falls.  When  tired  of  the 
confinement  of  my  cabin  I  used  to  camp  out  in 
it  in  January,  and  never  failed  to  find  flowers, 
and  butterflies  also,  except  during  snowstorms 
and  a  few  days  after. 

From  Yosemite  one  can  easily  walk  in  a  day 
to  the  top  of  Mount  Hoffman,  a  massive  gray 
mountain  that  rises  in  the  centre  of  the  Park, 
with  easy  slopes  adorned  with  castellated  piles 
and  crests  on  the  south  side,  rugged  precipices 
banked  with  perpetual  snow  on  the  north.  Most 
of  the  broad  summit  is  comparatively  level  and 
smooth,  and  covered  with  crystals  of  quartz, 
mica,  hornblende,  feldspar,  garnet,  zircon,  tour- 
maline, etc.,  weathered  out  and  strewn  loosely  as 
if  sown  broadcast ;  their  radiance  so  dazzling  in 
some  places  as  to  fairly  hide  the  multitude  of 


162  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

small  flowers  that  grow  among  them;  myriads 
of  keen  lance  rays  infinitely  fine,  white  or  colored, 
making  an  almost  continuous  glow  over  aU  the 
ground,  with  here  and  there  throbbing,  spangling 
lilies  of  light,  on  the  larger  gems.  At  first  sight 
only  these  crystal  sunflowers  are  noticed,  but 
looking  closely  you  discover  minute  gilias, 
ivesias,  eunanus,  phloxes,  etc.,  in  thousands, 
showing  more  petals  than  leaves;  and  larger 
plants  in  hollows  and  on  the  borders  of  rills,  — 
lupines,  potentillas,  daisies,  harebells,  mountain 
columbine,  astragalus,  fringed  with  heathworts. 
You  wander  about  from  garden  to  garden  en- 
chanted, as  if  walking  among  stars,  gathering 
the  brightest  gems,  each  and  all  apparently  doing 
their  best  with  eager  enthusiasm,  as  if  everything 
depended  on  faithful  shining;  and  considering 
the  flowers  basking  in  the  glorious  light,  many 
of  them  looking  like  swarms  of  small  moths  and 
butterflies  that  were  resting  after  long  dances  in 
the  sunbeams.  Now  your  attention  is  called  to 
colonies  of  woodchucks  and  pikas,  the  mounds  in 
front  of  their  burrows  glittering  like  heaps  of 
jewelry,  —  romantic  ground  to  live  in  or  die  in. 
Now  you  look  abroad  over  the  vast  round  land- 
scape bounded  by  the  down-curving  sky,  nearly- 
all  the  Park  in  it  displayed  like  a  map,  —  forests, 
meadows,  lakes,  rock  waves,  and  snowy  mountains. 
Northward  lies  the  basin  of  Yosemite  Creek, 
paved  with  bright  domes  and  lakes  like  larger  crys- 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    163 

tals ;  eastward,  the  meadowy,  billowy  Tuolumne 
region  and  the  Summit  peaks  in  glorious  array  ; 
southward,  Yosemite ;  and  westward,  the  bound- 
less forests.  On  no  other  mountain  that  I 
know  of  are  you  more  likely  to  linger.  It  is  a 
magnificent  camp  ground.  Clumps  of  dwarf 
pine  furnish  rosiny  roots  and  branches  for  fuel, 
and  the  rills  pure  water.  Around  your  camp  fire 
the  flowers  seem  to  be  looking  eagerly  at  the 
light,  and  the  crystals  shine  unweariedly,  making 
fine  company  as  you  He  at  rest  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  vast,  serene,  majestic  night. 

The  finest  of  the  glacier  meadow  gardens  lie 
at  an  elevation  of  about  nine  thousand  feet, 
imbedded  in  the  upper  pine  forests  like  lakes  of 
light.  They  are  smooth  and  level,  a  mile  or  two 
long,  and  the  rich,  well-drained  ground  is  com- 
pletely covered  with  a  soft,  silky,  plushy  sod 
enameled  with  flowers,  not  one  of  which  is  in 
the  least  weedy  or  coarse.  In  some  places  the 
sod  is  so  crowded  with  showy  flowers  that  the 
grasses  are  scarce  noticed,  in  others  they  are 
rather  sparingly  scattered ;  while  every  leaf  and 
flower  seems  to  have  its  winged  representative  in 
the  swarms  of  happy  flower-like  insects  that  en- 
liven the  air  above  them. 

With  the  winter  snowstorms  wings  and  petals 
are  folded,  and  for  more  than  half  the  year  the 
meadows  are  snow-buried  ten  or  fifteen  feet  deep. 
In  June  they  begin  to  thaw  out,  small  patches  of 


164  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  dead  sloppy  sod  appear,  gradually  increasing 
in  size  until  they  are  free  and  warm  again,  face 
to  face  with  the  sky ;  myriads  of  growing  points 
push  through  the  steaming  mould,  frogs  sing 
cheeringly,  soon  joined  by  the  birds,  and  the 
merry  insects  come  back  as  if  suddenly  raised 
from  the  dead.  Soon  the  ground  is  green  with 
mosses  and  liverworts  and  dotted  with  small 
fungi,  making  the  first  crop  of  the  season.  Then 
the  grass  leaves  weave  a  new  sod,  and  the  ex- 
ceedingly slender  panicles  rise  above  it  like  a 
purple  mist,  speedily  followed  by  potentilla, 
ivesia,  bossy  orthocarpus,  yellow  and  purple,  and 
a  few  pentstemons.  Later  come  the  daisies  and 
goldenrods,.  asters  and  gentians.  Of  the  last 
there  are  three  species,  small  and  fine,  with  vary- 
ing tones  of  blue,  and  in  glorious  abundance, 
coloring  extensive  patches  where  the  sod  is  shal- 
lowest. Through  the  midst  flows  a  stream  only 
two  or  three  feet  wide,  silently  gliding  as  if  care- 
ful not  to  disturb  the  hushed  calm  of  the  solitude, 
its  banks  embossed  by  the  common  sod  bent 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  trimmed  with  mosses 
and  violets ;  slender  grass  panicles  lean  over  like 
miniature  pine  trees,  and  here  and  there  on  the 
driest  places  small  mats  of  heathworts  are  neatly 
spread,  enriching  without  roughening  the  bossy 
down-curling  sod.  In  spring  and  summer  the 
weather  is  mostly  crisp,  exhilarating  sunshine, 
though  magnificent  mountain  ranges  of  cumuli 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    165 

are  often  upheaved  about  noon,  their  shady  hol- 
lows tinged  with  purple  ineffably  fine,  their 
snowy  sun-beaten  bosses  glowing  against  the 
sky,  casting  cooling  shadows  for  an  hour  or  two, 
then  dissolving  in  a  quick  washing  rain.  But 
for  days  in  succession  there  are  no  clouds  at  all, 
or  only  faint  wisps  and  pencilings  scarcely 
discernible. 

Toward  the  end  of  August  the  sunshine  grows 
hazy,  announcing  the  coming  of  Indian  summer, 
the  outlines  of  the  landscapes  are  softened  and 
mellowed,  and  more  and  more  plainly  are  the 
mountains  clothed  with  light,  white  tinged  with 
pale  purple,  richest  in  the  morning  and  evening. 
The  warm,  brooding  days  are  full  of  life  and 
thoughts  of  life  to  come,  ripening  seeds  with 
next  summer  in  them  or  a  hundred  summers. 
The  nights  are  unspeakably  impressive  and  calm ; 
frost  crystals  of  wondrous  beauty  grow  on  the 
grass,  —  each  carefully  planned  and  finished  as  if 
intended  to  endure  forever.  The  sod  becomes 
yellow  and  brown,  but  the  late  asters  and  gen- 
tians, carefully  closing  their  flowers  at  night,  do 
not  seem  to  feel  the  frost ;  no  nipped,  wilted 
plants  of  any  kind  are  to  be  seen ;  even  the 
early  snowstorms  fail  to  blight  them.  At  last 
the  precious  seeds  are  ripe,  all  the  work  of  the 
season  is  done,  and  the  sighing  pines  tell  the 
coming  of  winter  and  rest. 

Ascending  the  range  you  find  that  many  of 


166  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  higher  meadows  slope  considerably,  from 
the  amount  of  loose  material  washed  into  their 
basins ;  and  sedges  and  rushes  are  mixed  with 
the  grasses  or  take  their  places,  though  all  are 
still  more  or  less  flowery  and  bordered  with 
heathworts,  sibbaldea,  and  dwarf  willows.  Here 
and  there  you  come  to  small  bogs,  the  wettest 
smooth  and  adorned  with  parnassia  and  butter- 
cups, others  tussocky  and  ruffled  like  bits  of 
Arctic  tundra,  their  mosses  and  lichens  inter- 
woven with  dwarf  shrubs.  On  boulder  piles  the 
red  iridescent  oxyria  abounds,  and  on  sandy, 
gravelly  slopes  several  species  of  shrubby,  yel- 
low-flowered eriogonum,  some  of  the  plants,  less 
than  a  foot  high,  being  very  old,  a  century  or 
more,  as  is  shown  by  the  rings  made  by  the 
annual  whorls  of  leaves  on  the  big  roots.  Above 
these  flower-dotted  slopes  the  gray,  savage  wil- 
derness of  crags  and  peaks  seems  lifeless  and  bare. 
Yet  all  the  way  up  to  the  tops  of  the  highest 
mountains,  commonly  supposed  to  be  covered 
with  eternal  snow,  there  are  bright  garden  spots 
crowded  with  flowers,  their  warm  colors  calling 
to  mind  the  sparks  and  jets  of  fire  on  polar  vol- 
canoes rising  above  a  world  of  ice.  The  princi- 
pal mountain-top  plants  are  phloxes,  drabas, 
saxifrages,  silene,  cymopterus,  hulsea,  and  pole- 
monium,  growing  in  detached  stripes  and  mats, 
—  the  highest  streaks  and  splashes  of  the  sum- 
mer wave  as  it  breaks  against  these  wintry 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    167 

heights.  The  most  beautiful  are  the  phloxes 
(douglasii  and  csespitosum),  and  the  red-flowered 
silene,  with  innumerable  flowers  hiding  the 
leaves.  Though  herbaceous  plants,  like  the 
trees  and  shrubs,  are  dwarfed  as  they  ascend, 
two  of  these  mountain  dwellers,  Hulsea  algida 
and  Polemonium  confertum,  are  notable  excep- 
tions. The  yellow-flowered  hulsea  is  eight  to 
twelve  inches  high,  stout,  erect,  —  the  leaves, 
three  to  six  inches  long,  secreting  a  rosiny,  fra- 
grant gum,  standing  up  boldly  on  the  grim 
lichen-stained  crags,  and  never  looking  in  the 
least  tired  or  discouraged.  Both  the  ray  and 
disk  flowers  are  yellow ;  the  heads  are  nearly 
two  inches  wide,  and  are  eagerly  sought  for  by 
roving  bee  mountaineers.  The  polemonium  is 
quite  as  luxuriant  and  tropical-looking  as  its 
companion,  about  the  same  height,  glandular, 
fragrant,  its  blue  flowers  closely  packed  in  eight 
or  ten  heads,  twenty  to  forty  in  a  head.  It  is 
never  far  from  hulsea,  growing  at  elevations  of 
between  eleven  and  thirteen  thousand  feet  wher- 
ever a  little  hollow  or  crevice  favorably  situated 
with  a  handful  of  wind-driven  soil  can  be  found. 

From  these  frosty  Arctic  sky  gardens  you 
may  descend  in  one  straight  swoop  to  the  abronia, 
mentzelia,  and  cenothera  gardens  of  Mono,  where 
the  sunshine  is  warm  enough  for  palms. 

But  the  greatest  of  all  the  gardens  is  the  belt 
of  forest  trees,  profusely  covered  in  the  spring 


168  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

with  blue  and  purple,  red  and  yellow  blossoms, 
each  tree  with  a  gigantic  panicle  of  flowers  fifty 
to  a  hundred  feet  long.  Yet  strange  to  say 
they  are  seldom  noticed.  Few  travel  through 
the  woods  when  they  are  in  bloom,  the  flowers 
of  some  of  the  showiest  species  opening  before 
the  snow  is  off  the  ground.  Nevertheless,  one 
would  think  the  news  of  such  gigantic  flowers 
would  quickly  spread,  and  travelers  from  all  the 
world  would  make  haste  to  the  show.  Eager 
inquiries  are  made  for  the  bloomtime  of  rhodo- 
dendron-covered mountains  and  for  the  bloom- 
time  of  Yosemite  streams,  that  they  may  be  en- 
joyed in  their  prime ;  but  the  far  grander  outburst 
of  tree  bloom  covering  a  thousand  mountains  — 
who  inquires  about  that?  That  the  pistillate 
flowers  of  the  pines  and  firs  should  escape  the 
eyes  of  careless  lookers  is  less  to  be  wondered 
at,  since  they  mostly  grow  aloft  on  the  topmost 
branches,  and  can  hardly  be  seen  from  the  foot 
of  the  trees.  Yet  even  these  make  a  magnificent 
show  from  the  top  of  an  overlooking  ridge  when 
the  sunbeams  are  pouring  through  them.  But 
the  far  more  numerous  staminate  flowers  of  the 
pines  in  large  rosy  clusters,  and  those  of  the 
silver  firs  in  countless  thousands  on  the  under 
side  of  the  branches,  cannot  be  hid,  stand  where 
you  may.  The  mountain  hemlock  also  is  glori- 
ously colored  with  a  profusion  of  lovely  blue 
and  purple  flowers,  a  spectacle  to  gods  and  men. 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    169 

A  single  pine  or  hemlock  or  silver  fir  in  the 
prime  of  its  beauty  about  the  middle  of  June  is 
well  worth  the  pains  of  the  longest  journey ; 
how  much  more  broad  forests  of  them  thousands 
of  miles  long  ! 

One  of  the  best  ways  to  see  tree  flowers  is  to 
climb  one  of  the  tallest  trees  and  to  get  into 
close  tingling  touch  with  them,  and  then  look 
abroad.  Speaking  of  the  benefits  of  tree  climb- 
ing, Thoreau  says  :  "  I  found  my  account  in 
climbing  a  tree  once.  It  was  a  tall  white  pine, 
on  the  top  of  a  hill ;  and  though  I  got  well 
pitched,  I  was  well  paid  for  it,  for  I  discovered 
new  mountains  in  the  horizon  which  I  had  never 
seen  before.  I  might  have  walked  about  the 
foot  of  the  tree  for  threescore  years  and  ten,  and 
yet  I  certainly  should  never  have  seen  them. 
But,  above  all,  I  discovered  around  me,  —  it  was 
near  the  middle  of  June,  —  on  the  ends  of  the 
topmost  branches,  a  few  minute  and  delicate  red 
conelike  blossoms,  the  fertile  flower  of  the  white 
pine  looking  heavenward.  I  carried  straightway 
to  the  village  the  topmost  spire,  and  showed  it 
to  stranger  jurymen  who  walked  the  streets,  — 
for  it  was  court  week,  —  and  to  farmers  and 
lumbermen  and  woodchoppers  and  hunters,  and 
not  one  had  ever  seen  the  like  before,  but  they 
wondered  as  at  a  star  dropped  down." 

The  same  marvelous  blindness  prevails  here, 
although  the  blossoms  are  a  thousandfold  more 


170  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

abundant  and  telling.  Once  when  I  was  collect- 
ing flowers  of  the  red  silver  fir  near  a  summer 
tourist  resort  on  the  mountains  above  Lake  Ta- 
hoe,  I  carried  a  handful  of  flowery  branches  to 
the  boarding  house,  where  they  quickly  attracted 
a  wondering,  admiring  crowd  of  men,  women, 
and  children.  "  Oh,  where  did  you  get  these  ?  " 
they  cried.  "How  pretty  they  are  —  mighty 
handsome —  just  too  lovely  for  anything  — where 
do  they  grow  ? "  "On  the  commonest  trees 
about  you,"  I  replied.  "  You  are  now  standing 
beside  one  of  them,  and  it  is  in  full  bloom  ;  look 
up."  And  I  pointed  to  a  blossom-laden  Abies 
magnifica,  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high, 
in  front  of  the  house,  used  as  a  hitching  post. 
And  seeing  its  beauty  for  the  first  time,  their 
wonder  could  hardly  have  been  greater  or  more 
sincere  had  their  silver  fir  hitching  post  blossomed 
for  them  at  that  moment  as  suddenly  as  Aaron's 
rod. 

The  mountain  hemlock  extends  an  almost  con- 
tinuous belt  along  the  Sierra  and  northern  ranges 
to  Prince  William's  Sound,  accompanied  part  of 
the  way  by  the  pines;  our  two  silver  firs,  to 
Mount  Shasta,  thence  the  fir  belt  is  continued 
through  Oregon,  Washington,  and  British  Colum- 
bia by  four  other  species,  Abies  nobilis,  grandis, 
amabilis,  and  lasiocarpa ;  while  the  magnificent 
Sitka  spruce,  with  large,  bright,  purple  flowers, 
adorns  the  coast  region  from  California  to  Cook's 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK    171 

Inlet  and  Kodiak.  All  these,  interblending, 
form  one  flowery  belt  —  one  garden  blooming  in 
June,  rocking  its  myriad  spires  in  the  hearty 
weather,  bowing  and  swirling,  enjoying  clouds 
and  the  winds  and  filling  them  with  balsam ; 
covering  thousands  of  miles  of  the  wildest  moun- 
tains, clothing  the  long  slopes  by  the  sea,  crown- 
ing bluffs  and  headlands  and  innumerable  islands, 
and,  fringing  the  banks  of  the  glaciers,  one  wild 
wavering  belt  of  the  noblest  flowers  in  the  world, 
worth  a  lifetime  of  love  work  to  know  it. 


CHAPTEK  VI 

AMONG    THE    ANIMALS    OF    THE    YOSEMITE 

THE  Sierra  bear,  brown  or  gray,  the  sequoia 
of  the  animals,  tramps  over  all  the  park,  though 
few  travelers  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him. 
On  he  fares  through  the  majestic  forests  and 
canons,  facing  all  sorts  of  weather,  rejoicing  in 
his  strength,  everywhere  at  home,  harmonizing 
with  the  trees  and  rocks  and  shaggy  chaparral. 
Happy  fellow !  his  lines  have  fallen  in  pleasant 
places,  — lily  gardens  in  silver-fir  forests,  miles 
of  bushes  in  endless  variety  and  exuberance  of 
bloom  over  hill-waves  and  valleys  and  along  the 
banks  of  streams,  canons  full  of  music  and 
waterfalls,  parks  fair  as  Eden,  —  places  in  which 
one  might  expect  to  meet  angels  rather  than 
bears. 

In  this  happy  land  no  famine  comes  nigh  him. 
All  the  year  round  his  bread  is  sure,  for  some  of 
the  thousand  kinds  that  he  likes  are  always  in 
season  and  accessible,  ranged  on  the  shelves  of 
the  mountains  like  stores  in  a  pantry.  From 
one  to  another,  from  climate  to  climate,  up  and 
down  he  climbs,  feasting  on  each  in  turn,  —  en- 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    173 

joying  as  great  variety  as  if  he  traveled  to  far-off 
countries  north  and  south.  To  him  almost  every 
thing  is  food  except  granite.  Every  tree  helps 
to  feed  him,  every  bush  and  herb,  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  leaves  and  bark  ;  and  all  the  animals  he 
can  catch,  —  badgers,  gophers,  ground  squirrels, 
lizards,  snakes,  etc.,  and  ants,  bees,  wasps,  old 
and  young,  together  with  their  eggs  and  larvse 
and  nests.  Craunched  and  hashed,  down  all  go 
to  his  marvelous  stomach,  and  vanish  as  if  cast 
into  a  fire.  What  digestion  !  A  sheep  or  a 
wounded  deer  or  a  pig  he  eats  warm,  about  as 
quickly  as  a  boy  eats  a  buttered  muffin  ;  or  should 
the  meat  be  a  month  old,  it  still  is  welcomed  with 
tremendous  relish.  After  so  gross  a  meal  as 
this,  perhaps  the  next  will  be  strawberries  and 
clover,  or  raspberries  with  mushrooms  and  nuts, 
or  puckery  acorns  and  chokecherries.  And  as 
if  fearing  that  anything  eatable  in  all  his  domin- 
ions should  escape  being  eaten,  he  breaks  into 
cabins  to  look  after  sugar,  dried  apples,  bacon,  etc. 
Occasionally  he  eats  the  mountaineer's  bed ;  but 
when  he  has  had  a  full  meal  of  more  tempting 
dainties  he  usually  leaves  it  undisturbed,  though 
he  has  been  known  to  drag  it  up  through  a  hole 
in  the  roof,  carry  it  to  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  lie 
down  on  it  to  enjoy  a  siesta.  Eating  everything, 
never  is  he  himself  eaten  except  by  man,  and 
only  man  is  an  enemy  to  be  feared.  "  B'ar  meat," 
said  a  hunter  from  whom  I  was  seeking  informa- 


174  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tion, "  b'ar  meat  is  the  best  meat  in  the  moun- 
tains ;  their  skins  make  the  best  beds,  and  their 
grease  the  best  butter.  Biscuit  shortened  with 
b'ar  grease  goes  as  far  as  beans;  a  man  will 
walk  all  day  on  a  couple  of  them  biscuit." 

In  my  first  interview  with  a  Sierra  bear  we 
were  frightened  and  embarrassed,  both  of  us, 
but  the  bear's  behavior  was  better  than  mine. 
When  I  discovered  him,  he  was  standing  in  a 
narrow  strip  of  meadow,  and  I  was  concealed  be- 
hind a  tree  on  the  side  of  it.  After  studying  his 
appearance  as  he  stood  at  rest,  I  rushed  toward 
him  to  frighten  him,  that  I  might  study  his  gait 
in  running.  But,  contrary  to  all  I  had  heard 
about  the  shyness  of  bears,  he  did  not  run  at  all ; 
and  when  I  stopped  short  within  a  few  steps  of 
him,  as  he  held  his  ground  in  a  fighting  attitude, 
my  mistake  was  monstrously  plain.  I  was  then 
put  on  my  good  behavior,  and  never  afterward 
forgot  the  right  manners  of  the* wilderness. 

This  happened  on  my  first  Sierra  excursion  in 
the  forest  to  the  north  of  Yosemite  Valley.  I 
was  eager  to  meet  the  animals,  and  many  of  them 
came  to  me  as  if  willing  to  show  themselves  and 
make  my  acquaintance ;  but  the  bears  kept  out 
of  my  way. 

An  old  mountaineer,  in  reply  to  my  questions, 
told  me  that  bears  were  very  shy,  all  save  grim 
old  grizzlies,  and  that  I  might  travel  the  moun- 
tains for  years  without  seeing  one,  unless  I  gave 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    175 

my  mind  to  them  and  practiced  the  stealthy  ways 
of  hunters.  Nevertheless,  it  was  only  a  few  weeks 
after  I  had  received  this  information  that  I  met 
the  one  mentioned  above,  and  obtained  instruc- 
tion at  first-hand. 

I  was  encamped  in  the  woods  about  a  mile 
back  of  the  rim  of  Yosemite,  beside  a  stream  that 
falls  into  the  valley  by  the  way  of  Indian  Canon. 
Nearly  every  day  for  weeks  I  went  to  the  top  of  the 
North  Dome  to  sketch  ;  for  it  commands  a  gen- 
eral view  of  the  valley,  and  I  was  anxious  to  draw 
eveiy  tree  and  rock  and  waterfah1.  Carlo,  a  St. 
Bernard  dog,  was  my  companion,  —  a  fine,  intel- 
ligent fellow  that  belonged  to  a  hunter  who  was 
compelled  to  remain  all  summer  on  the  hot  plains, 
and  who  loaned  him  to  me  for  the  season  for  the 
sake  of  having  him  in  the  mountains,  where  he 
would  be  so  much  better  off.  Carlo  knew  bears 
through  long  experience,  and  he  it  was  who  led 
me  to  my  first  interview,  though  he  seemed  as 
much  surprised  as  the  bear  at  my  unhunter-like 
behavior.  One  morning  in  June,  just  as  the  sun- 
beams began  to  stream  through  the  trees,  I  set 
out  for  a  day's  sketching  on  the  dome  ;  and  be- 
fore we  had  gone  half  a  mile  from  camp  Carlo 
snuffed  the  air  and  looked  cautiously  ahead,  low- 
ered his  bushy  tail,  drooped  his  ears,  and  began 
to  step  softly  like  a  cat,  turning  every  few  yards 
and  looking  me  in  the  face  with  a  telling  expres- 
sion, saying  plainly  enough,  "  There  is  a  bear  a 


176  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

little  way  ahead."  I  walked  carefully  in  the  in- 
dicated direction,  until  I  approached  a  small 
flowery  meadow  that  I  was  familiar  with,  then 
crawled  to  the  foot  of  a  tree  on  its  margin,  bear- 
ing in  mind  what  I  had  been  told  about  the  shy- 
ness of  bears.  Looking  out  cautiously  over  the 
instep  of  the  tree,  I  saw  a  big,  burly  cinnamon 
bear  about  thirty  yards  off,  half  erect,  his  paws 
resting  on  the  trunk  of  a  fir  that  had  fallen  into 
the  meadow,  his  hips  almost  buried  in  grass  and 
flowers.  He  was  listening  attentively  and  trying 
to  catch  the  scent,  showing  that  in  some  way  he 
was  aware  of  our  approach.  I  watched  his  ges- 
tures, and  tried  to  make  the  most  of  my  opportu- 
nity to  learn  what  I  could  about  him,  fearing  he 
would  not  stay  long.  He  made  a  fine  picture, 
standing  alert  in  the  sunny  garden  walled  in  by 
the  most  beautiful  firs  in  the  world. 

After  examining  him  at  leisure,  noting  the 
sharp  muzzle  thrust  inquiringly  forward,  the  long 
shaggy  hair  on  his  broad  chest,  the  stiff  ears 
nearly  buried  in  hair,  and  the  slow,  heavy  way  in 
which  he  moved  his  head,  I  foolishly  made  a  rush 
on  him,  throwing  up  my  arms  and  shouting  to 
frighten  him,  to  see  him  run.  He  did  not  mind 
the  demonstration  much  ;  only  pushed  his  head 
farther  forward,  and  looked  at  me  sharply  as  if 
asking,  "  What  now  ?  If  you  want  to  fight,  I  'm 
ready."  Then  I  began  to  fear  that  on  me  would 
fall  the  work  of  running.  But  I  was  afraid  to 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    177 

run,  lest  he  should  be  encouraged  to  pursue  me  ; 
therefore  I  held  my  ground,  staring  him  in  the 
face  within  a  dozen  yards  or  so,  putting  on  as 
bold  a  look  as  I  could,  and  hoping  the  influence 
of  the  human  eye  would  be  as  great  as  it  is  said 
to  be.  Under  these  strained  relations  the  inter- 
view seemed  to  last  a  long  time.  Finally,  the  bear, 
seeing  how  still  I  was,  calmly  withdrew  his  huge 
paws  from  the  log,  gave  me  a  piercing  look,  as  if 
warning  me  not  to  follow  him,  turned,  and  walked 
slowly  up  the  middle  of  the  meadow  into  the  for- 
est ;  stopping  every  few  steps  and  looking  back 
to  make  sure  that  I  was  not  trying  to  take  him 
at  a  disadvantage  in  a  rear  attack.  I  was  glad 
to  part  with  him,  and  greatly  enjoyed  the  van- 
ishing view  as  he  waded  through  the  lilies  and 
columbines. 

Thenceforth  I  always  tried  to  give  bears  re- 
spectful notice  of  my  approach,  and  they  usu- 
ally kept  well  out  of  my  way.  Though  they 
often  came  around  my  camp  in  the  night,  only 
once  afterward,  as  far  as  I  know,  was  I  very 
near  one  of  them  in  daylight.  This  time  it  was 
a  grizzly  I  met ;  and  as  luck  would  have  it,  I 
was  even  nearer  to  him  than  I  had  been  to  the 
big  cinnamon.  Though  not  a  large  specimen, 
he  seemed  formidable  enough  at  a  distance  of 
less  than  a  dozen  yards.  His  shaggy  coat  was 
well  grizzled,  his  head  almost  white.  When  I 
first  caught  sight  of  him  he  was  eating  acorns 


178  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

under  a  Kellogg  oak,  at  a  distance  of  perhaps 
seventy-five  yards,  and  I  tried  to  slip  past  with- 
out disturbing  him.  But  he  had  either  heard 
my  steps  on  the  gravel  or  caught  my  scent,  for 
he  came  straight  toward  me,  stopping  every  rod 
or  so  to  look  and  listen  :  and  as  I  was  afraid  to 
be  seen  running,  I  crawled  on  my  hands  and 
knees  a  little  way  to  one  side  and  hid  behind  a 
libocedrus,  hoping  he  would  pass  me  unnoticed. 
He  soon  came  up  opposite  me,  and  stood  look- 
ing ahead,  while  I  looked  at  him,  peering  past 
the  bulging  trunk  of  the  tree.  At  last,  turn- 
ing his  head,  he  caught  sight  of  mine,  stared 
sharply  a  minute  or  two,  and  then,  with  fine 
dignity,  disappeared  in  a  manzanita-covered 
earthquake  talus. 

Considering  how  heavy  and  broad-footed  bears 
are,  it  is  wonderful  how  little  harm  they  do  in 
the  wilderness.  Even  in  the  well-watered  gar- 
dens of  the  middle  region,  where  the  flowers 
grow  tallest,  and  where  during  warm  weather  the 
bears  wallow  and  roll,  no  evidence  of  destruc- 
tion is  visible.  On  the  contrary,  under  nature's 
direction,  the  massive  beasts  act  as  gardeners. 
On  the  forest  floor,  carpeted  with  needles  and 
brush,  and  on  the  tough  sod  of  glacier  meadows, 
bears  make  no  mark ;  but  around  the  sandy  mar- 
gin of  lakes  their  magnificent  tracks  form  grand 
lines  of  embroidery.  Their  well-worn  trails  ex- 
tend along  the  main  canons  on  either  side,  and 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    179 

though  dusty  in  some  places  make  no  scar  on 
the  landscape.  They  bite  and  break  off  the 
branches  of  some  of  the  pines  and  oaks  to  get 
the  nuts,  but  this  pruning  is  so  light  that  few 
mountaineers  ever  notice  it  ;  and  though  they 
interfere  with  the  orderly  lichen-veiled  decay  of 
fallen  trees,  tearing  them  to  pieces  to  reach  the 
colonies  of  ants  that  inhabit  them,  the  scattered 
ruins  are  quickly  pressed  back  into  harmony  by 
snow  and  rain  and  over-leaning  vegetation. 

The  number  of  bears  that  make  the  Park  their 
home  may  be  guessed  by  the  number  that  have 
been  killed  by  the  two  best  hunters,  Duncan  and 
old  David  Brown.  Duncan  began  to  be  known 
as  a  bear-killer  about  the  year  1865.  He  was 
then  roaming  the  woods,  hunting  and  prospect- 
ing on  the  south  fork  of  the  Merced.  A  friend 
told  me  that  he  killed  his  first  bear  near  his 
cabin  at  Wawona  ;  that  after  mustering  courage 
to  fire  he  fled,  without  waiting  to  learn  the  ef- 
fect of  his  shot.  Going  back  in  a  few  hours  he 
found  poor  Bruin  dead,  and  gained  courage  to 
try  again.  Duncan  confessed  to  me,  when  we 
made  an  excursion  together  in  1875,  that  he  was 
at  first  mortally  afraid  of  bears,  but  after  killing 
a  half  dozen  he  began  to  keep^count  of  his  vic- 
tims, and  became  ambitious  to  be  known  as  a 
great  bear-hunter.  In  nine  years  he  had  killed 
forty-nine,  keeping  count  by  notches  cut  on  one 
of  the  timbers  of  his  cabin  on  the  shore  of  Ores- 


180  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

cent  Lake,  near  the  south  boundary  of  the  Park. 
He  said  the  more  he  knew  about  bears,  the  more 
he  respected  theni  and  the  less  he  feared  them. 
But  at  the  same  time  he  grew  more  and  more 
cautious,  and  never  fired  until  he  had  every  ad- 
vantage, no  matter  how  long  he  had  to  wait  and 
how  far  he  had  to  go  before  he  got  the  bear  just 
right  as  to  the  direction  of  the  wind,  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  way  of  escape  in  case  of  accident ; 
making  allowance  also  for  the  character  of  the 
animal,  old  or  young,  cinnamon  or  grizzly.  For 
old  grizzlies,  he  said,  he  had  no  use  whatever, 
and  he  was  mighty  careful  to  avoid  their  ac- 
quaintance. He  wanted  to  kill  an  even  hundred; 
then  he  was  going  to  confine  himself  to  safer 
game.  There  was  not  much  money  in  bears, 
anyhow,  and  a  round  hundred  was  enough  for 
glory. 

I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  lately,  and  do 
not  know  how  his  bloody  count  stands.  On  my 
excursions,  I  occasionally  passed  his  cabin.  It 
was  full  of  meat  and  skins  hung  in  bundles  from 
the  rafters,  and  the  ground  about  it  was  strewn 
with  bones  and  hair,  —  infinitely  less  tidy  than 
a  bear's  den.  He  went  as  hunter  and  guide 
with  a  geological  survey  party  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  was  very  proud  of  the  scientific  knowledge 
he  picked  up.  His  admiring  fellow  mountain- 
eers, he  said,  gave  him  credit  for  knowing  not 
only  the  botanical  names  of  all  the  trees  and 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    181 

bushes,  but  also  the  "botanical  names  of  the 
bears."  . 

The  most  famous  hunter  of  the  region  was 
David  Brown,  an  old  pioneer,  who  early  in  the 
gold  period  established  his  main  camp  in  a  little 
forest  glade  on  the  north  fork  of  the  Merced, 
which  is  still  called  "  Brown's  Flat."  No  finer 
solitude  for  a  hunter  and  prospector  could  be 
found ;  the  climate  is  delightf ul  all  the  year,  and 
the  scenery  of  both  earth  and  sky  is  a  perpetual 
feast.  Though  he  was  not  much  of  a  "  scenery 
fellow,"  his  friends  say  that  he  knew  a  pretty 
place  when  he  saw  it  as  well  as  any  one,  and 
liked  mightily  to  get  on  the  top  of  a  command- 
ing ridge  to  "  look  off." 

When  out  of  provisions,  he  would  take  down 
his  old-fashioned  long-barreled  rifle  from  its  deer- 
horn  rest  over  the  fireplace  and  set  out  in  search 
of  game.  Seldom  did  he  have  to  go  far  for  veni- 
son, because  the  deer  liked  the  wooded  slopes  of 
Pilot  Peak  ridge,  with  its  open  spots  where  they 
could  rest  and  look  about  them,  and  enjoy  the 
breeze  from  the  sea  in  warm  weather,  free  from 
troublesome  flies,  while  they  found  hiding-places 
and  fine  aromatic  food  in  the  deer-brush  chapar- 
ral. A  small,  wise  dog  was  his  only  companion, 
and  well  the  little  mountaineer  understood  the 
object  of  every  hunt,  whether  deer  or  bears,  or 
only  grouse  hidden  in  the  fir-tops.  In  deer- 
hunting  Sandy  had  little  to  do,  trotting  behind 


182  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

his  master  as  he  walked  noiselessly  through  the 
fragrant  woods,  careful  not  to  step  heavily  on 
dry  twigs,  scanning  open  spots  in  the  chaparral 
where  the  deer  feed  in  the  early  morning  and 
toward  sunset,  peering  over  ridges  and  swells  as 
new  outlooks  were  reached,  and  along  alder  and 
willow  fringed  flats  and  streams,  until  he  found 
a  young  buck,  killed  it,  tied  its  legs  together, 
threw  it  on  his  shoulder,  and  so  back  to  camp. 
But  when  bears  were  hunted,  Sandy  played  an 
important  part  as  leader,  and  several  times  saved 
his  master's  life ;  and  it  was  as  a  bear-hunter  that 
David  Brown  became  famous.  His  method,  as 
I  had  it  from  a  friend  who  had  passed  many  an 
evening  in  his  cabin  listening  to  his  long  stories 
of  adventure,  was  simply  to  take  a  few  pounds 
of  flour  and  his  rifle,  and  go  slowly  and  silently 
over  hill  and  valley  in  the  loneliest  part  of  the 
wilderness,  until  little  Sandy  came  upon  the 
fresh  track  of  a  bear,  then  follow  it  to  the  death, 
paying  no  heed  to  time.  Wherever  the  bear 
went  he  went,  however  rough  the  ground,  led  by 
Sandy,  who  looked  back  from  time  to  time  to  see 
how  his  master  was  coming  on,  and  regulated  his 
pace  accordingly,  never  growing  weary  or  allow- 
ing any  other  track  to  divert  him.  When  high 
ground  was  reached  a  halt  was  made,  to  scan 
the  openings  in  every  direction,  and  perchance 
Bruin  would  be  discovered  sitting  upright  on 
his  haunches,  eating  manzanita  berries ;  pulling 


AMONG  THE  A1STIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    183 

down  the  fruit-laden  branches  "with  his  paws  and 
pressing  them  together,  so  as  to  get  substantial 
mouthfuls,  however  mixed  with  leaves  and  twigs. 
The  time  of  year  enabled  the  hunter  to  deter- 
mine approximately  where  the  game  would  be 
found  :  in  spring  and  early  summer,  in  lush  grass 
and  clover  meadows  and  in  berry  tangles  along 
the  banks  of  streams,  or  on  pea-vine  and  lupine 
clad  slopes ;  in  late  summer  and  autumn,  beneath 
the  pines,  eating  the  cones  cut  off  by  the  squir- 
rels, and  in  oak  groves  at  the  bottom  of  canons, 
munching  acorns,  manzanita  berries,  and  cher- 
ries ;  and  after  snow  had  fallen,  in  alluvial  bot- 
toms, feeding  on  ants  and  yellow-jacket  wasps. 
These  food  places  were  always  cautiously  ap- 
proached, so  as  to  avoid  the  chance  of  sudden 
encounters. 

"  Whenever,"  said  the  hunter,  "  I  saw  a  bear 
before  he  saw  me,  I  had  no  trouble  in  killing 
him.  I  just  took  lots  of  time  to  learn  what  he 
was  up  to  and  how  long  he  would  be  likely  to 
stay,  and  to  study  the  direction  of  the  wind  and 
the  lay  of  the  land.  Then  I  worked  round  to 
leeward  of  him,  no  matter  how  far  I  had  to  go ; 
crawled  and  dodged  to  within  a  hundred  yards, 
near  the  foot  of  a  tree  that  I  could  climb,  but 
which  was  too  small  for  a  bear  to  climb.  There 
I  looked  well  to  the  priming  of  my  rifle,  took 
off  my  boots  so  as  to  climb  quickly  if  necessary, 
and,  with  my  rifle  in  rest  and  Sandy  behind  me, 


184  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

waited  until  my  bear  stood  right,  when  I  made 
a  sure,  or  at  least  a  good  shot  back  of  the  fore 
leg.  In  case  he  showed  fight,  I  got  up  the  tree 
I  had  in  mind,  before  he  could  reach  me.  But 
bears  are  slow  and  awkward  with  their  eyes,  and 
being  to  windward  they  could  not  scent  me,  and 
often  I  got  in  a  second  shot  before  they  saw  the 
smoke.  Usually,  however,  they  tried  to  get 
away  when  they  were  hurt,  and  I  let  them  go 
a  good  safe  while  before  I  ventured  into  the 
brush  after  them.  Then  Sandy  was  pretty  sure 
to  find  them  dead ;  if  not,  he  barked  bold  as  a 
lion  to  draw  attention,  or  rushed  in  and  nipped 
them  behind,  enabling  me  to  get  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance and  watch  a  chance  for  a  finishing  shot. 

"  Oh  yes,  bear-hunting  is  a  mighty  interesting 
business,  and  safe  enough  if  followed  just  right, 
though,  like  every  other  business,  especially  the 
wild  kind,  it  has  its  accidents,  and  Sandy  and  I 
have  had  close  calls  at  times.  Bears  are  nobody's 
fools,  and  they  know  enough  to  let  men  alone 
as  a  general  thing,  unless  they  are  wounded,  or 
cornered,  or  have  cubs.  In  my  opinion,  a  hun- 
gry old  mother  would  catch  and  eat  a  man,  if 
she  could ;  which  is  only  fair  play,  anyhow,  for 
we  eat  them.  But  nobody,  as  far  as  I  know, 
has  been  eaten  up  in  these  rich  mountains. 
Why  they  never  tackle  a  fellow  when  he  is  lying 
asleep  I  never  could  understand.  They  could 
gobble  us  mighty  handy,  but  I  suppose  it 's 
nature  to  respect  a  sleeping  man." 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    185 

Sheep-owners  and  their  shepherds  have  killed 
a  great  many  bears,  mostly  by  poison  and  traps 
of  various  sorts.  Bears  are  fond  of  mutton,  and 
levy  heavy  toll  on  every  flock  driven  into  the 
mountains.  They  usually  come  to  the  corral  at 
night,  climb  in,  kill  a  sheep  with  a  stroke  of  the 
paw,  carry  it  off  a  little  distance,  eat  about  half 
of  it,  and  return  the  next  night  for  the  other 
half;  and  so  on  all  summer,  or  until  they  are 
themselves  killed.  It  is  not,  however,  by  direct 
killing,  but  by  suffocation  through  crowding 
against  the  corral  wall  in  fright,  that  the  great- 
est losses  are  incurred.  From  ten  to  fifteen 
sheep  are  found  dead,  smothered  in  the  corral, 
after  every  attack  ;  or  the  walls  are  broken,  and 
the  flock  is  scattered  far  and  wide.  A  flock 
may  escape  the  attention  of  these  marauders  for 
a  week  or  two  in  the  spring;  but  after  their 
first  taste  of  the  fine  mountain-fed  meat  the 
visits  are  persistently  kept  up,  in  spite  of  all 
precautions.  Once  I  spent  a  night  with  two 
Portuguese  shepherds,  who  were  greatly  troubled 
with  bears,  from  two  to  four  or  five  visiting 
them  almost  every  night.  Their  camp  was  near 
the  middle  of  the  Park,  and  the  wicked  bears, 
they  said,  were  getting  worse  and  worse.  Not 
waiting  now  until  dark,  they  came  out  of  the 
brush  in  broad  daylight,  and  boldly  carried  off 
as  many  sheep  as  they  liked.  One  evening, 
before  sundown,  a  bear,  followed  by  two  cubs, 


186  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

came  for  an  early  supper,  as  the  flock  was  being 
slowly  driven  toward  the  camp.  Joe,  the  elder 
of  the  shepherds,  warned  by  many  exciting  ex- 
periences, promptly  climbed  a  tall  tamarack  pine, 
and  left  the  freebooters  to  help  themselves ; 
while  Antone,  calling  him  a  coward,  and  declar- 
ing that  he  was  not  going  to  let  bears  eat  up  his 
sheep  before  his  face,  set  the  dogs  on  them,  and 
rushed  toward  them  with  a  great  noise  and  a 
stick.  The  frightened  cubs  ran  up  a  tree,  and 
the  mother  ran  to  meet  the  shepherd  and  dogs. 
Antone  stood  astonished  for  a  moment,  eying 
the  oncoming  bear ;  then  fled  faster  than  Joe 
had,  closely  pursued.  He  scrambled  to  the  roof 
of  their  little  cabin,  the  only  refuge  quickly 
available ;  and  fortunately,  the  bear,  anxious 
about  her  young,  did  not  climb  after  him,  — 
only  held  him  in  mortal  terror  a  few  minutes, 
glaring  and  threatening,  then  hastened  back  to 
her  cubs,  called  them  down,  went  to  the  fright- 
ened, huddled  flock,  killed  a  sheep,  and  feasted 
in  peace.  Antone  piteously  entreated  cautious 
Joe  to  show  him  a  good  safe  tree,  up  which  he 
climbed  like  a  sailor  climbing  a  mast,  and  held  on 
as  long  as  he  could  with  legs  crossed,  the  slim 
pine  recommended  by  Joe  being  nearly  branch- 
less. "  So  you,  too,  are  a  bear  coward  as  well 
as  Joe,"  I  said,  after  hearing  the  story.  "  Oh, 
I  tell  you,"  he  replied,  with  grand  solemnity, 
"  bear  face  close  by  look  awful ;  she  just  as  soon 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YO  SEMITE    187 

eat  me  as  not.  She  do  so  as  eef  all  my  sheeps 
b'long  every  one  to  her  own  self.  I  run  to  bear 
no  more.  I  take  tree  every  time." 

After  this  the  shepherds  corraled  the  flock 
about  an  hour  before  sundown,  chopped  large 
quantities  of  dry  wood  and  made  a  circle  of  fires 
around  the  corral  every  night,  and  one  with  a 
gun  kept  watch  on  a  stage  built  in  a  pine  by  the 
side  of  the  cabin,  while  the  other  slept.  But 
after  the  first  night  or  two  this  fire  fence  did  no 
good,  for  the  robbers  seemed  to  regard  the  light 
as  an  advantage,  after  becoming  used  to  it. 

On  the  night  I  spent  at  their  camp  the  show 
made  by  the  wall  of  fire  when  it  was  blazing  in 
its  prime  was  magnificent,  —  the  illumined  trees 
round  about  relieved  against  solid  darkness,  and 
the  two  thousand  sheep  lying  down  in  one  gray 
mass,  sprinkled  with  gloriously  brilliant  gems, 
the  effect  of  the  firelight  in  their  eyes.  It  was 
nearly  midnight  when  a  pair  of  the  freebooters 
arrived.  They  walked  boldly  through  a  gap  in 
the  fire  circle,  killed  two  sheep,  carried  them  out, 
and  vanished  in  the  dark  woods,  leaving  ten 
dead  in  a  pile,  trampled  down  and  smothered 
against  the  corral  fence ;  while  the  scared 
watcher  in  the  tree  did  not  fire  a  single  shot, 
saying  he  was  afraid  he  would  hit  some  of  the 
sheep,  as  the  bears  got  among  them  before  he 
could  get  a  good  sight. 

In  the  morning  I  asked  the  shepherds  why 


188  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

they  did  not  move  the  flock  to  a  new  pasture. 
"  Oh,  no  use  !  "  cried  Antone.  "  Look  my 
dead  sheeps.  We  move  three  four  time  before, 
all  the  same  bear  come  by  the  track.  No  use. 
To-morrow  we  go  home  below.  Look  my  dead 
sheeps.  Soon  all  dead." 

Thus  were  they  driven  out  of  the  mountains 
more  than  a  month  before  the  usual  time.  After 
Uncle  Sam's  soldiers,  bears  are  the  most  effective 
forest  police,  but  some  of  the  shepherds  are  very 
successful  in  killing  them.  Altogether,  by 
hunters,  mountaineers,  Indians,  and  sheepmen, 
probably  five  or  six  hundred  have  been  killed 
within  the  bounds  of  the  Park,  during  the  last 
thirty  years.  But  they  are  not  in  danger  of 
extinction.  '  Now  that  the  Park  is  guarded  by 
soldiers,  not  only  has  the  vegetation  in  great 
part  come  back  to  the  desolate  ground,  but  all 
the  wild  animals  are  increasing  in  numbers.  No 
guns  are  allowed  in  the  Park  except  under  cer- 
tain restrictions,  and  after  a  permit  has  been 
obtained  from  the  officer  in  charge.  This  has 
stopped  the  barbarous  slaughter  of  bears,  and 
especially  of  deer,  by  shepherds,  hunters,  and 
hunting  tourists,  who,  it  would  seem,  can  find 
no  pleasure  without  blood. 

The  Sierra  deer  —  the  blacktail  —  spend  the 
winters  in  the  brushy  and  exceedingly  rough 
region  just  below  the  main  timber-belt,  and  are 
less  accessible  to  hunters  there  than  when  they 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    189 

are  passing  through  the  comparatively  open  for- 
ests to  and  from  their  summer  pastures  near  the 
summits  of  the  range.  They  go  up  the  moun- 
tains early  in  the  spring  as  the  snow  melts,  not 
waiting  for  it  all  to  disappear ;  reaching  the 
high  Sierra  about  the  first  of  June,  and  the 
coolest  recesses  at  the  base  of  the  peaks  a  month 
or  so  later.  I  have  tracked  them  for  miles  over 
compacted  snow  from  three  to  ten  feet  deep. 

Deer  are  capital  mountaineers,  making  their 
way  into  the  heart  of  the  roughest  mountains ; 
seeking  not  only  pasturage,  but  a  cool  climate, 
and  safe  hidden  places  in  which  to  bring  forth 
their  young.  They  are  not  supreme  as  rock- 
climbing  animals ;  they  take  second  rank,  yield- 
ing the  first  to  the  mountain  sheep,  which  dwell 
above  them  on  the  highest  crags  and  peaks. 
Still,  the  two  meet  frequently;  for  the  deer 
climbs  alTthe  peaks  save  the  lofty  summits  above 
the  glaciers,  crossing  piles  of  angular  boulders, 
roaring  swollen  streams,  and  sheer-walled  canons 
by  fords  and  passes  that  would  try  the  nerves 
of  the  hardiest  mountaineers, —  climbing  with 
graceful  ease  and  reserve  of  strength  that  can- 
not fail  to  arouse  admiration.  Everywhere  some 
species  of  deer  seems  to  be  at  home,  —  on  rough 
or  smooth  ground,  lowlands  or  highlands,  in 
swamps  and  barrens  and  the  densest  woods,  in 
varying  climates,  hot  or  cold,  over  aU  the  conti- 
nent; maintaining  glorious  health,  never  mak- 


190  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  an  awkward  step.  Standing,  lying  down, 
walking,  feeding,  running  even  for  life,  it  is  al- 
ways invincibly  graceful,  arid  adds  beauty  and 
animation  to  every  landscape,  —  a  charming  ani- 
mal, and  a  great  credit  to  nature. 

I  never  see  one  of  the  common  blacktail  deer, 
the  only  species  in  the  Park,  without  fresh  ad- 
miration ;  and  since  I  never  carry  a  gun  I  see 
them  well :  lying  beneath  a  juniper  or  dwarf 
pine,  among  the  brown  needles  on  the  brink  of 
some  cliff  or  the  end  of  a  ridge  commanding  a 
wide  outlook ;  feeding  in  sunny  openings  among 
chaparral,  daintily  selecting  aromatic  leaves  and 
twigs ;  leading  their  fawns  out  of  my  way,  or 
making  them  lie  down  and  hide  ;  bounding  past 
through  the  forest,  or  curiously  advancing  and 
retreating  again  and  again. 

One  morning  when  I  was  eating  breakfast 
in  a  little  garden  spot  on  the  Kaweah,  hedged 
around  with  chaparral,  I  noticed  a  deer's  head 
thrust  through  the  bushes,  the  big  beautiful 
eyes  gazing  at  me.  I  kept  still,  and  the  deer 
ventured  forward  a  step,  then  snorted  and  with- 
drew. In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  and 
came  into  the  open  garden,  stepping  with  in- 
finite grace,  followed  by  two  others.  After 
showing  themselves  for  a  moment,  they  bounded 
over  the  hedge  with  sharp,  timid  snorts  and 
vanished.  But  curiosity  brought  them  back 
with  still  another,  and  all  four  came  into  my 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    191 

garden,  and,  satisfied  that  I  meant  them  no  ill, 
began  to  feed,  actually  eating  breakfast  with 
me,  like  tame,  gentle  sheep  around  a  shepherd, 
—  rare  company,  and  the  most  graceful  in  move- 
ments and  attitudes.  I  eagerly  watched  them 
while  they  fed  on  ceanothus  and  wild  cherry, 
daintily  culling  single  leaves  here  and  there  from 
the  side  of  the  hedge,  turning  now  and  then  to 
snip  a  few  leaves  of  mint  from  the  midst  of  the 
garden  flowers.  Grass  they  did  not  eat  at  all. 
No  wonder  the  contents  of  the  deer's  stomach 
are  eaten  by  the  Indians. 

While  exploring  the  upper  canon  of  the  north 
fork  of  the  San  Joaquin,  one  evening,  the  sky 
threatening  rain,  I  searched  for  a  dry  bed,  and 
made  choice  of  a  big  juniper  that  had  been 
pushed  down  by  a  snow  avalanche,  but  was  rest- 
ing stubbornly  on  its  knees  high  enough  to  let 
me  He  under  its  broad  trunk.  Just  below  my 
shelter  there  was  another  juniper  on  the  very 
brink  of  a  precipice,  and,  examining  it,  I  found  a 
deer-bed  beneath  it,  completely  protected  and 
concealed  by  drooping  branches,  —  a  fine  refuge 
and  lookout  as  well  as  resting-place.  About  an 
hour  before  dark  I  heard  the  clear,  sharp  snort- 
ing of  a  deer,  and  looking  down  on  the  brushy, 
rocky  canon  bottom,  discovered  an  anxious  doe 
that  no  doubt  had  her  fawns  concealed  near  by. 
She  bounded  over  the  chaparral  and  up  the  far- 
ther slope  of  the  wall,  often  stopping  to  look 


192  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

back  and  listen,  —  a  fine  picture  of  vivid,  eager 
alertness.  I  sat  perfectly  still,  and  as  my  shirt 
was  colored  like  the  juniper  bark  I  was  not  easily 
seen.  After  a  little  she  came  cautiously  toward 
me,  sniffing  the  air  and  grazing,  and  her  move- 
ments, as  she  descended  the  canon  side  over 
boulder  piles  and  brush  and  fallen  timber,  were 
admirably  strong  and  beautiful;  she  never 
strained  or  made  apparent  efforts,  although 
jumping  high  here  and  there.  As  she  drew 
nigh  she  sniffed  anxiously,  trying  the  air  in  dif- 
ferent directions  until  she  caught  my  scent ; 
then  bounded  off,  and  vanished  behind  a  small 
grove  of  firs.  Soon  she  came  back  with  the  same 
caution  and  insatiable  curiosity,  —  coming  and 
going  five  or  six  times.  While  I  sat  admiring 
her,  a  Douglas  squirrel,  evidently  excited  by  her 
noisy  alarms,  climbed  a  boulder  beneath  me,  and 
witnessed  her  performances  as  attentively  as  I 
did,  while  a  frisky  chipmunk,  too  restless  or  hun- 
gry for  such  shows,  busied  himself  about  his 
supper  in  a  thicket  of  shadbushes,  the  fruit  of 
which  was  then  ripe,  glancing  about  on  the 
slender  twigs  lightly  as  a  sparrow. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  Indian  summer,  when 
the  young  are  strong,  the  deer  begin  to  gather 
in  little  bands  of  from  six  to  fifteen  or  twenty, 
and  on  the  approach  of  the  first  snowstorm  they 
set  out  on  their  march  down  the  mountains  to 
their  winter  quarters ;  lingering  usually  on  warm 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    193 

hillsides  and  spurs  eight  or  ten  miles  below  the 
summits,  as  if  loath  to  leave.  About  the  end  of 
November,  a  heavy,  far-reaching  storm  drives 
them  down  in  haste  along  the  dividing  ridges 
between  the  rivers,  led  by  old  experienced  bucks 
whose  knowledge  of  the  topography  is  wonder- 
ful. 

It  is  when  the  deer  are  coming  down  that  the 
Indians  set  out  on  their  grand  fall  hunt.  Too 
lazy  to  go  into  the  recesses  of  the  mountains 
away  from  trails,  they  wait  for  the  deer  to  come 
out,  and  then  waylay  them.  This  plan  also  has 
the  advantage  of  finding  them  in  bands.  Great 
preparations  are  made.  Old  guns  are  mended, 
bullets  moulded,  and  the  hunters  wash  them- 
selves and  fast  to  some  extent,  to  insure  good 
luck,  as  they  say.  Men  and  women,  old  and 
young,  set  forth  together.  Central  camps  are 
made  on  the  well-known  highways  of  the  deer, 
which  are  soon  red  with  blood.  Each  hunter 
comes  in  laden,  old  crones  as  well  as  maidens 
smiling  on  the  luckiest.  All  grow  fat  and  merry. 
Boys,  each  armed  with  an  antlered  head,  play  at 
buck-fighting,  and  plague  the  industrious  wo- 
men, who  are  busily  preparing  the  meat  for 
transportation,  by  stealing  up  behind  them  and 
throwing  fresh  hides  over  them.  But  the  In- 
dians are  passing  away  here  as  everywhere,  and 
their  red  camps  on  the  mountains  are  fewer  every 
year. 


194  OUR,  NATIONAL  PARKS 

There  are  panthers,  foxes,  badgers,  porcupines, 
and  coyotes  in  the  Park,  but  not  in  large  num- 
bers. I  have  seen  coyotes  well  back  in  the  range 
at  the  head  of  the  Tuolutnne  Meadows  as  early 
as  June  1st,  before  the  snow  was  gone,  feeding 
on  marmots ;  but  they  are  far  more  numerous 
on  the  inhabited  lowlands  around  ranches,  where 
they  enjoy  life  on  chickens,  turkeys,  quail  eggs, 
ground  squirrels,  hares,  etc.,  and  all  kinds  of 
fruit.  Few  wild  sheep,  I  fear,  are  left  here- 
abouts ;  for,  though  safe  on  the  high  peaks,  they 
are  driven  down  the  eastern  slope  of  the  moun- 
tains when  the  deer  are  driven  down  the  western, 
to  ridges  and  outlying  spurs  where  the  snow  does 
not  fall  to  a  great  depth,  and  there  they  are 
within  reach  of  the  cattlemen's  rifles. 

The  two  squirrels  of  the  Park,  the  Douglas 
and  the  California  gray,  keep  all  the  woods 
lively.  The  former  is  far  more  abundant  and 
more  widely  distributed,  being  found  all  the  way 
up  from  the  foothills  to  the  dwarf  pines  on  the 
Summit  peaks.  He  is  the  most  influential  of  the 
Sierra  animals,  though  small,  and  the  brightest  of 
all  the  squirrels  I  know,  —  a  squirrel  of  squirrels, 
quick  mountain  vigor  and  valor  condensed,  purely 
wild,  and  as  free  from  disease  as  a  sunbeam. 
One  cannot  think  of  such  an  animal  ever  being 
weary  or  sick.  He  claims  all  the  woods,  and  is 
inclined  to  drive  away  even  men  as  intruders. 
How  he  scolds,  and  what  faces  he  makes !  If 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    195 

not  so  comically  small  he  would  be  a  dreadful 
fellow.  The  gray,  Sciurus  fossor,  is  the  hand- 
somest, I  think,  of  all  the  large  American 
squirrels.  He  is  something  like  the  Eastern 
gray,  but  is  brighter  and  clearer  in  color,  and 
more  lithe  and  slender.  He  dwells  in  the  oak 
and  pine  woods  up  to  a  height  of  about  five 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  is  rather  common  in 
Yosemite  Valley,  Hetch-Hetchy,  Kings  Kiver 
Canon,  and  indeed  in  all  the  main  canons  and 
Yosemites,  but  does  not  like  the  high  fir-covered 
ridges.  Compared  with  the  Douglas,  the  gray 
is  more  than  twice  as  large ;  nevertheless,  he 
manages  to  make  his  way  through  the  trees  with 
less  stir  than  his  small,  peppery  neighbor,  and  is 
much  less  influential  in  every  way.  In  the 
spring,  before  the  pine-nuts  and  hazel-nuts  are 
ripe,  he  examines  last  year's  cones  for  the  few 
seeds  that  may  be  left  in  them  between  the  half- 
open  scales,  and  gleans  fallen  nuts  and  seeds  on 
the  ground  among  the  leaves,  after  making  sure 
that  no  enemy  is  nigh.  His  fine  tail  floats,  now 
behind,  now  above  him,  level  or  gracefully 
curled,  light  and  radiant  as  dry  thistledown. 
His  body  seems  hardly  more  substantial  than  his 
tail.  The  Douglas  is  a  firm,  emphatic  bolt  of 
life,  fiery,  pungent,  full  of  brag  and  show  and 
fight,  and  his  movements  have  none  of  the  ele- 
gant deliberation  of  the  gray.  They  are  so 
quick  and  keen  they  almost  sting  the  onlooker, 


196  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  the  acrobatic  harlequin  gyrating  show  he 
makes  of  himself  turns  one  giddy  to  see.  The 
gray  is  shy  and  oftentimes  stealthy,  as  if  half  ex- 
pecting to  find  an  enemy  in  every  tree  and  bush 
and  behind  every  log ;  he  seems  to  wish  to  be 
let  alone,  and  manifests  no  desire  to  be  seen,  or 
admired,  or  feared.  He  is  hunted  by  the  In- 
dians, and  this  of  itself  is  cause  enough  for  cau- 
tion. The  Douglas  is  less  attractive  for  game, 
and  probably  increasing  in  numbers  in  spite  of 
every  enemy.  He  goes  his  ways  bold  as  a  lion, 
up  and  down  and  across,  round  and  round,  the 
happiest,  merriest  of  all  the  hairy  tribe,  and  at 
the  same  time  tremendously  earnest  and  solemn, 
sunshine  incarnate,  making  every  tree  tingle 
with  his  electric  toes.  If  you  prick  him,  you 
cannot  think  he  will  bleed.  He  seems  above  the 
chance  and  change  that  beset  common  mortals, 
though  in  busily  gathering  burs  and  nuts  he 
shows  that  he  has  to  work  for  a  living,  like  the 
rest  of  us.  I  never  found  a  dead  Douglas.  He 
gets  into  the  world  and  out  of  it  without  being 
noticed ;  only  in  prime  is  he  seen,  like  some 
little  plants  that  are  visible  only  when  in  bloom. 
The  little  striped  Tamias  quadrivittatus  is  one 
of  the  most  amiable  and  delightful  of  all  the 
mountain  tree-climbers.  A  brighter,  cheerier 
chipmunk  does  not  exist.  He  is  smarter,  more 
arboreal  and  squirrel-like,  than  the  familiar  East- 
ern species,  and  is  distributed  as  widely  on  the 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    197 

Sierra  as  the  Douglas.  Every  forest,  however 
dense  or  open,  every  hilltop  and  canon,  how- 
ever brushy  or  bare,  is  cheered  and  enlivened  by 
this  happy  little  animal.  You  are  likely  to  notice 
him  first  on  the  lower  edge  of  the  coniferous  belt, 
where  the  Sabine  and  yellow  pines  meet;  and 
thence  upward,  go  where  you  may,  you  will  find 
him  every  day,  even  in  winter,  unless  the  weather 
is  stormy.  He  is  an  exceedingly  interesting 
little  fellow,  full  of  odd,  quaint  ways,  confiding, 
thinking  no  evil ;  and  without  being  a  squirrel 
—  a  true  shadow-tail  —  he  lives  the  life  of  a 
squirrel,  and  has  almost  all  squirrelish  accom- 
plishments without  aggressive  quarrelsomeness. 
I  never  weary  of  watching  him  as  he  frisks 
about  the  bushes,  gathering  seeds  and  berries; 
poising  on  slender  twigs  of  wild  cherry,  shad, 
chinquapin,  buckthorn,  bramble ;  skimming  along 
prostrate  trunks  or  over  the  grassy,  needle-strewn 
forest  floor ;  darting  from  boulder  to  boulder  on 
glacial  pavements  and  the  tops  of  the  great 
domes.  When  the  seeds  of  the  conifers  are  ripe, 
he  climbs  the  trees  and  cuts  off  the  cones  for  a 
winter  store,  working  diligently,  though  not  with 
the  tremendous  lightning  energy  of  the  Douglas, 
who  frequently  drives  him  out  of  the  best  trees. 
Then  he  lies  in  wait,  and  picks  up  a  share  of  the 
burs  cut  off  by  his  domineering  cousin,  and  stores 
them  beneath  logs  and  in  hollows.  Few  of  the 
Sierra  animals  are  so  well  liked  as  this  little  airy, 


198  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

fluffy  half  squirrel,  half  spermophile.  So  gentle, 
confiding,  and  busily  cheery  and  happy,  he  takes 
one's  heart  and  keeps  his  place  among  the  best- 
loved  of  the  mountain  darlings.  A  diligent  col- 
lector of  seeds,  nuts,  and  berries,  of  course  he  is 
well  fed,  though  never  in  the  least  dumpy  with 
fat.  On  the  contrary,  he  looks  like  a  mere  fluff 
of  fur,  weighing  but  little  more  than  a  field 
mouse,  and  of  his  frisky,  birdlike  liveliness  with- 
out haste  there  is  no  end.  Douglas  can  bark 
with  his  mouth  closed,  but  little  quad  always 
opens  his  when  he  talks  or  sings.  He  has  a 
considerable  variety  of  notes  which  correspond 
with  his  movements,  some  of  them  sweet  and 
liquid,  like  water  dripping  into  a  pool  with  tink- 
ling sound.  His  eyes  are  black  and  animated, 
shining  like  dew.  He  seems  dearly  to  like  teas- 
ing a  dog,  venturing  within  a  few  feet  of  it,  then 
frisking  away  with  a  lively  chipping  and  low 
squirrelish  churring  ;  beating  time  to  his  music, 
such  as  it  is,  with  his  tail,  which  at  each  chip  and 
churr  describes  a  half  circle.  Not  even  Douglas 
is  surer  footed  or  takes  greater  risks.  I  have 
seen  him  running  about  on  sheer  Yosemite  cliffs, 
holding  on  with  as  little  effort  as  a  fly  and  as 
little  thought  of  danger,  in  places  where,  if  he 
had  made  the  least  slip,  he  would  have  fallen 
thousands  of  feet.  How  fine  it  would  be  could 
mountaineers  move  about  on  precipices  with  the 
same  sure  grip  1 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMETE    199 

Before  the  pine-nuts  are  ripe,  grass  seeds  and 
those  of  the  many  species  of  ceanothus,  with 
strawberries,  raspberries,  and  the  soft  red  thim- 
bleberries  of  Rubus  nutkanus,  form  the  bulk  of 
his  food,  and  a  neater  eater  is  not  to  be  found 
in  the  mountains.  Bees  powdered  with  pollen, 
poking  their  blunt  noses  into  the  bells  of  flowers, 
are  comparatively  clumsy  and  boorish.  Frisking 
along  some  fallen  pine  or  fir,  when  the  grass 
seeds  are  ripe,  he  looks  about  him,  considering 
which  of  the  tufts  he  sees  is  likely  to  have  the 
best,  runs  out  to  it,  selects  what  he  thinks  is  sure 
to  be  a  good  head,  cuts  it  off,  carries  it  to  the  top 
of  the  log,  sits  upright  and  nibbles  out  the  grain 
without  getting  awns  in  his  mouth,  turning 
the  head  round,  holding  it  and  fingering  it  as  if 
playing  on  a  flute ;  then  skips  for  another  and 
another,  bringing  them  to  the  same  dining-log. 

The  woodchuck  (Arctomys  monax)  dwells 
on  high  bleak  ridges  and  boulder  piles;  and 
a  very  different  sort  of  mountaineer  is  he, — 
bulky,  fat,  aldermanic,  and  fairly  bloated  at 
times  by  hearty  indulgence  in  the  lush  pastures 
of  his  airy  home.  And  yet  he  is  by  no  means  a 
dull  animal.  In  the  midst  of  what  we  regard  as 
storm-beaten  desolation,  high  in  the  frosty  air, 
beside  the  glaciers  he  pipes  and  whistles  right 
cheerily  and  lives  to  a  good  old  age.  If  you  are 
as  early  a  riser  as  he  is,  you  may  oftentimes  see 
him  come  blinking  out  of  his  burrow  to  meet  the 


200  OUK  NATIONAL  PARKS 

first  beams  of  the  morning  and  take  a  sunbath  on 
some  favorite  flat-topped  boulder.  Afterward, 
well  warmed,  he  goes  to  breakfast  in  one  of  his 
garden  hollows,  eats  heartily  like  a  cow  in  clover 
until  comfortably  swollen,  then  goes  a-visiting, 
and  plays  and  loves  and  fights. 

In  the  spring  of  1875,  when  I  was  exploring 
the  peaks  and  glaciers  about  the  head  of  the 
middle  fork  of  the  San  Joaquin,  I  had  crossed 
the  range  from  the  head  of  Owen  River,  and  one 
morning,  passing  around  a  frozen  lake  where 
the  snow  was  perhaps  ten  feet  deep,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  the  fresh  track  of  a  woodchuck 
plainly  marked,  the  sun  having  softened  the  sur- 
face. What  could  the  animal  be  thinking  of, 
coming  out  so  early  while  all  the  ground  was 
snow-buried?  The  steady  trend  of  his  track 
showed  he  had  a  definite  aim,  and  fortunately  it 
was  toward  a  mountain  thirteen  thousand  feet 
high  that  I  meant  to  climb.  So  I  followed  to 
see  if  I  could  find  out  what  he  was  up  to.  From 
the  base  of  the  mountain  the  track  pointed 
straight  up,  and  I  knew  by  the  melting  snow 
that  I  was  not  far  behind  him.  I  lost  the  track 
on  a  crumbling  ridge,  partly  projecting  through 
the  snow,  but  soon  discovered  it  again.  Well 
toward  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  in  an  open 
spot  on  the  south  side,  nearly  inclosed  by  disin- 
tegrating pinnacles  among  which  the  sun  heat 
reverberated,  making  an  isolated  patch  of  warm 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    201 

climate,  I  found  a  nice  garden,  full  of  rock  cress, 
phlox,  silene,  draba,  etc.,  and  a  few  grasses ;  and 
in  this  garden  I  overtook  the  wanderer,  enjoy- 
ing a  fine  fresh  meal,  perhaps  the  first  of  the 
season.  How  did  he  know  the  way  to  this 
one  garden  spot,  so  high  and  far  off,  and  what 
told  him  that  it  was  in  bloom  while  yet  the  snow 
was  ten  feet  deep  over  his  den  ?  For  this  it 
would  seem  he  would  need  more  botanical,  topo- 
graphical, and  climatological  knowledge  than 
most  mountaineers  are  possessed  of. 

The  shy,  curious  mountain  beaver,  Haplo- 
don,  lives  on  the  heights,  not  far  from  the 
woodchuck.  He  digs  canals  and  controls  the 
flow  of  small  streams  under  the  sod.  And  it  is 
startling  when  one  is  camped  on  the  edge  of  a 
sloping  meadow  near  the  homes  of  these  indus- 
trious mountaineers,  to  be  awakened  in  the  still 
night  by  the  sound  of  water  rushing  and  gurg- 
ling under  one's  head  in  a  newly  formed  canal. 
Pouched  gophers  also  have  a  way  of  awakening 
nervous  campers  that  is  quite  as  exciting  as  the 
Haplodon's  pain ;  that  is,  by  a  series  of  firm  up- 
ward pushes  when  they  are  driving  tunnels  and 
shoving  up  the  dirt.  One  naturally  cries  out, 
"  Who  's  there  ? "  and  then  discovering  the 
cause,  "  All  right.  Go  on.  Good-night,"  and 
goes  to  sleep  again. 

The  haymaking  pika,  bob-tailed  spermophile, 
and  wood-rat  are  also  among  the  most  interest- 


202  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  of  the  Sierra  animals.  The  last  Neotoma 
is  scarcely  at  all  like  the  common  rat,  is  nearly 
twice  as  large,  has  a  delicate,  soft,  hrownish  fur, 
white  on  the  belly,  large  ears  thin  and  trans- 
lucent, eyes  full  and  liquid  and  mild  in  ex- 
pression, nose  blunt  and  squirrelish,  slender 
claws  sharp  as  needles,  and  as  his  limbs  are 
strong  he  can  climb  about  as  well  as  a  squirrel ; 
while  no  rat  or  squirrel  has  so  innocent  a  look, 
is  so  easily  approached,  or  in  general  expresses 
so  much  confidence  in  one's  good  intentions. 
He  seems  too  fine  for  the  thorny  thickets  he  in- 
habits, and  his  big,  rough  hut  is  as  unlike  him- 
self as  possible.  No  other  animal  in  these 
mountains  makes  nests  so  large  and  striking  in 
appearance  as  his.  They  are  built  of  all  kinds 
of  sticks  (broken  branches,  and  old  rotten  moss- 
grown  chunks  and  green  twigs,  smooth  or 
thorny,  cut  from  the  nearest  bushes),  mixed  with 
miscellaneous  rubbish  and  curious  odds  and  ends, 
—  bits  of  cloddy  earth,  stones,  bones,  bits  of 
deer-horn,  etc. :  the  whole  simply  piled  in  conical 
masses  on  the  ground  in  chaparral  thickets. 
Some  of  these  cabins  are  five  or  six  feet  high, 
and  occasionally  a  dozen  or  more  are  grouped 
together;  less,  perhaps,  for  society's  sake  than 
for  advantages  of  food  and  shelter. 

Coming  through  deep,  stiff  chaparral  in  the 
heart  of  the  wilderness,  heated  and  weary  in 
forcing  a  way,  the  solitary  explorer,  happening 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    203 

into  one  of  these  curious  neotoma  villages,  is 
startled  at  the  strange  sight,  and  may  imagine 
he  is  in  an  Indian  village,  and  feel  anxious  as  to 
the  reception  he  will  get  in  a  place  so  wild.  At 
first,  perhaps,  not  a  single  inhabitant  will  be 
seen,  or  at  most  only  two  or  three  seated  on  the 
tops  of  their  huts  as  at  the  doors,  observing 
the  stranger  with  the  mildest  of  mild  eyes.  The 
nest  in  the  centre  of  the  cabin  is  made  of  grass 
and  films  of  bark  chewed  to  tow,  and  lined  with 
feathers  and  the  down  of  various  seeds.  The 
thick,  rough  walls  seem  to  be  built  for  defense 
against  enemies  —  fox,  coyote,  etc.  —  as  well  as 
for  shelter,  and  the  delicate  creatures  in  their  big, 
rude  homes,  suggest  tender  flowers,  like  those  of 
Salvia  carduacea,  defended  by  thorny  involucres. 
Sometimes  the  home  is  built  in  the  forks  of 
an  oak,  twenty  or  thirty  feet  from  the  ground, 
and  even  in  garrets.  Among  housekeepers  who 
have  these  bushmen  as  neighbors  or  guests  they 
are  regarded  as  thieves,  because  they  carry  away 
and  pile  together  everything  transportable 
(knives,  forks,  tin  cups,  spoons,  spectacles, 
combs,  nails,  kindling-wood,  etc.,  as  well  as 
eatables  of  all  sorts),  to  strengthen  their  fortifi- 
cations or  to  shine  among  rivals.  Once,  far 
back  in  the  high  Sierra,  they  stole  my  snow- 
goggles,  the  lid  of  my  teapot,  and  my  aneroid 
barometer;  and  one  stormy  night,  when  en- 
camped under  a  prostrate  cedar,  I  was  awakened 


204  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

by  a  gritting  sound  on  the  granite,  and  by  the 
light  of  my  fire  I  discovered  a  handsome  neo- 
toma  beside  me,  dragging  away  my  ice-hatchet, 
pulling  with  might  and  main  by  a  buckskin 
string  on  the  handle.  I  threw  bits  of  bark  at 
him  and  made  a  noise  to  frighten  him,  but  he 
stood  scolding  and  chattering  back  at  me,  his  fine 
eyes  shining  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence. 

A  great  variety  of  lizards  enliven  the  warm 
portions  of  the  Park.  Some  of  them  are  more 
than  a  foot  in  length,  others  but  little  larger 
than  grasshoppers.  A  few  are  snaky  and  re- 
pulsive at  first  sight,  but  most  of  the  species  are 
handsome  and  attractive,  and  bear  acquaintance 
well;  we  like  them  better  the  farther  we  see  into 
their  charming  lives.  Small  fellow  mortals,  gen- 
tle and  guileless,  they  are  easily  tamed,  and  have 
beautiful  eyes,  expressing  the  clearest  innocence, 
so  that,  in  spite  of  prejudices  brought  from  cool, 
lizardless  countries,  one  must  soon  learn  to  like 
them.  Even  the  horned  toad  of  the  plains  and 
foothills,  called  horrid,  is  mild  and  gentle,  with 
charming  eyes,  and  so  are  the  snakelike  species 
found  in  the  underbrush  of  the  lower  forests. 
These  glide  in  curves  with  all  the  ease  and  grace 
of  snakes,  while  their  small,  undeveloped  limbs 
drag  for  the  most  part  as  useless  appendages. 
One  specimen  that  I  measured  was  fourteen 
inches  long,  and  as  far  as  I  saw  it  made  no  use 
whatever  of  its  diminutive  limbs. 


AMONG  THE  AISTIMALS  OF   THE  YOSEMITE    205 

Most  of  them  glint  and  dart  on  the  sunny 
rocks  and  across  open  spaces  from  bush  to  bush, 
swift  as  dragonflies  and  humming-birds,  and 
about  as  brilliantly  colored.  They  never  make 
a  long-sustained  run,  whatever  their  object,  but 
dart  direct  as  arrows  for  a  distance  of  ten  or 
twenty  feet,  then  suddenly  stop,  and  as  suddenly 
start  again.  These  stops  are  necessary  as  rests, 
for  they  are  short-winded,  and  when  pursued 
steadily  are  soon  run  out  of  breath,  pant  piti- 
fully, and  may  easily  be  caught  where  no  retreat 
in  bush  or  rock  is  quickly  available. 

If  you  stay  with  them  a  week  or  two  and  be- 
have well,  these  gentle  saurians,  descendants  of 
an  ancient  race  of  giants,  will  soon  know  and 
trust  you,  come  to  your  feet,  play,  and  watch 
your  every  motion  with  cunning  curiosity.  You 
will  surely  learn  to  like  them,  not  only  the 
bright  ones,  gorgeous  as  the  rainbow,  but  the 
little  ones,  gray  as  lichened  granite,  and  scarcely 
bigger  than  grasshoppers ;  and  they  will  teach 
you  that  scales  may  cover  as  fine  a  nature  as 
hair  or  feathers  or  anything  tailored. 

There  are  many  snakes  in  the  canons  and 
lower  forests,  but  they  are  mostly  handsome  and 
harmless.  Of  all  the  tourists  and  travelers  who 
have  visited  Yosemite  and  the  adjacent  moun- 
tains, not  one  has  been  bitten  by  a  snake  of  any 
sort,  while  thousands  have  been  charmed  by 
them.  Some  of  them  vie  with  the  lizards  in 


206  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

beauty  of  color  and  dress  patterns.  Only  the 
rattlesnake  is  venomous,  and  he  carefully  keeps 
his  venom  ta  himself  as  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
unless  his  life  is  threatened. 

Before  I  learned  to  respect  rattlesnakes  I 
killed  two,  the  first  on  the  San  Joaquin  plain. 
He  was  coiled  comfortably  around  a  tuft  of 
bunch-grass,  and  I  discovered  him  when  he  was 
between  my  feet  as  I  was  stepping  over  him. 
He  held  his  head  down  and  did  not  attempt  to 
strike,  although  in  danger  of  being  trampled. 
At  that  time,  thirty  years  ago,  I  imagined  that 
rattlesnakes  should  be  killed  wherever  found.  I 
had  no  weapon  of  any  sort,  and  on  the  smooth 
plain  there  was  not  a  stick  or  a  stone  within 
miles ;  so  I  crushed  him  by  jumping  on  him,  as 
the  deer  are  said  to  do.  Looking  me  in  the 
face  he  saw  I  meant  mischief,  and  quickly  cast 
himself  into  a  coil,  ready  to  strike  in  defense. 
I  knew  he  could  not  strike  when  traveling, 
therefore  I  threw  handfuls  of  dirt  and  grass 
sods  at  him,  to  tease  him  out  of  coil.  He  held 
his  ground  a  few  minutes,  threatening  and  strik- 
ing, and  then  started  off  to  get  rid  of  me.  I 
ran  forward  and  jumped  on  him ;  but  he  drew 
back  his  head  so  quickly  my  heel  missed,  and 
he  also  missed  his  stroke  at  me.  Persecuted, 
tormented,  again  and  again  he  tried  to  get  away, 
bravely  striking  out  to  protect  himself ;  but  at 
last  my  heel  came  squarely  down,  sorely  wound- 


AMONG  THE   ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    207 

ing  him,  and  a  few  more  brutal  stampings 
crushed  him.  I  felt  degraded  by  the  killing 
business,  farther  from  heaven,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  try  to  be  at  least  as  fair  and  chari- 
table as  the  snakes  themselves,  and  to  kill  no 
more  save  in  self-defense. 

The  second  killing  might  also,  I  think,  have 
been  avoided,  and  I  have  always  felt  somewhat 
sore  and  guilty  about  it.  I  had  built  a  little 
cabin  in  Yosemite,  and  for  convenience  in  get- 
ting water,  and  for  the  sake  of  music  and  so- 
ciety, I  led  a  small  stream  from  Yosemite  Creek 
into  it.  Running  along  the  side  of  the  wall  it 
was  not  in  the  way,  and  it  had  just  fall  enough 
to  ripple  and  sing  in  low,  sweet  tones,  making 
delightful  company,  especially  at  night  when  I 
was  lying  awake.  Then  a  few  frogs  came  in 
and  made  merry  with  the  stream,  —  and  one 
snake,  I  suppose  to'  catch  the  frogs. 

Returning  from  my  long  walks,  I  usually 
brought  home  a  large  handful  of  plants,  partly 
for  study,  partly  for  ornament,  and  set  them  in 
a  corner  of  the  cabin,  with  their  stems  in  the 
stream  to  keep  them  fresh.  One  day,  when  I 
picked  up  a  handful  that  had  begun  to  fade,  I 
uncovered  a  large  coiled  rattler  that  had  been 
hiding  behind  the  flowers.  Thus  suddenly 
brought  to  light  face  to  face  with  the  rightful 
owner  of  the  place,  the  poor  reptile  was  desper- 
ately embarrassed,  evidently  realizing  that  he 


208  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

had  no  right  in  the  cabin.  It  was  not  only  fear 
that  he  showed,  but  a  good  deal  of  downright 
bashfulness  and  embarrassment,  like  that  of  a 
more  than  half  honest  person  caught  under  sus- 
picious circumstances  behind  a  door.  Instead 
of  striking  or  threatening  to  strike,  though 
coiled  and  ready,  he  slowly  drew  his  head  down 
as  far  as  he  could,  with  awkward,  confused  kinks 
in  his  neck  and  a  shamefaced  expression,  as  if 
wishing  the  ground  would  open  and  hide  him. 
I  have  looked  into  the  eyes  of  so  many  wild 
animals  that  I  feel  sure  I  did  not  mistake  the 
feelings  of  this  unfortunate  snake.  I  did  not 
want  to  kill  him,  but  I  had  many  visitors,  some 
of  them  children,  and  I  oftentimes  came  in  late 
at  night ;  so  I  judged  he  must  die. 

Since  then  I  have  seen  perhaps  a  hundred  or 
more  in  these  mountains,  but  I  have  never  in- 
tentionally disturbed  them,  nor  have  they  dis- 
turbed me  to  any  great  extent,  even  by  accident, 
though  in  danger  of  being  stepped  on.  Once, 
while  I  was  on  my  knees  kindling  a  fire,  one 
glided  under  the  arch  made  by  my  arm.  He 
was  only  going  away  from  the  ground  I  had  se- 
lected for  a  camp,  and  there  was  not  the  slight- 
est danger,  because  I  kept  still  and  allowed  him 
to  go  in  peace.  The  only  time  I  felt  myself  in 
serious  danger  was  when  I  was  coming  out  of 
the  Tuolumne  Canon  by  a  steep  side  canon  to- 
ward the  head  of  Yosemite  Creek.  On  an 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    209 

earthquake  talus,  a  boulder  in  my  way  presented 
a  front  so  high  that  I  could  just  reach  the  upper 
edge  of  it  while  standing  on  the  next  below  it. 
Drawing  myself  up,  as  soon  as  my  head  was 
above  the  flat  top  of  it  I  caught  sight  of  a  coiled 
rattler.  My  hands  had  alarmed  him,  and  he 
was  ready  for  me ;  but  even  with  this  provoca- 
tion, and  when  my  head  came  in  sight  within  a 
foot  of  him,  he  did  not  strike.  The  last  time  I 
sauntered  through  the  big  canon  I  saw  about 
two  a  day.  One  was  not  coiled,  but  neatly 
folded  in  a  narrow  space  between  two  cobble- 
stones on  the  side  of  the  river,  his  head  below 
the  level  of  them,  ready  to  shoot  up  like  a  Jack- 
in-the-box  for  frogs  or  birds.  My  foot  spanned 
the  space  above  within  an  inch  or  two  of  his 
head,  but  he  only  held  it  lower.  In  making  my 
way  through  a  particularly  tedious  tangle  of 
buckthorn,  I  parted  the  branches  on  the  side  of 
an  open  spot  and  threw  my  bundle  of  bread  into 
it ;  and  when,  with  my  arms  free,  I  was  pushing 
through  after  it,  I  saw  a  small  rattlesnake  drag- 
ging his  tail  from  beneath  my  bundle.  When 
he  caught  sight  of  me  he  eyed  me  angrily,  and 
with  an  air  of  righteous  indignation  seemed  to 
be  asking  why  I  had  thrown  that  stuff  on  him. 
He  was  so  small  that  I  was  inclined  to  slight 
him,  but  he  struck  out  so  angrily  that  I  drew 
back,  and  approached  the  opening  from  the 
other  side.  But  he  had  been  listening,  and 


210  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

when  I  looked  through  the  brush  I  found  him 
confronting  me,  still  with  a  come-in-if-you-dare 
expression.  In  vain  I  tried  to  explain  that  I 
only  wanted  my  bread ;  he  stoutly  held  the 
ground  in  front  of  it ;  so  I  went  back  a  dozen 
rods  and  kept  still  for  half  an  hour,  and  when  I 
returned  he  had  gone. 

One  evening,  near  sundown,  in  a  very  rough, 
boulder-choked  portion  of  the  canon,  I  searched 
long  for  a  level  spot  for  a  bed,  and  at  last  was 
glad  to  find  a  patch  of  flood-sand  on  the  river- 
bank,  and  a  lot  of  driftwood  close  by  for  a  camp- 
fire.  But  when  I  threw  down  my  bundle,  I 
found  two  snakes  in  possession  of  the  ground. 
I  might  have  passed  the  night  even  in  this  snake 
den  without  danger,  for  I  never  knew  a  single 
instance  of  their  coming  into  camp  in  the  night ; 
but  fearing  that,  in  so  small  a  space,  some  late 
comers,  not  aware  of  my  presence,  might  get 
stepped  on  when  I  was  replenishing  the  fire,  to 
avoid  possible  crowding  I  encamped  on  one  of 
the  earthquake  boulders. 

There  are  two  species  of  Crotalus  in  the  Park, 
and  when  I  was  exploring  the  basin  of  Yosemite 
Creek  I  thought  I  had  discovered  a  new  one.  I 
saw  a  snake  with  curious  divided  appendages  on 
its  head.  Going  nearer,  I  found  that  the  strange 
headgear  was  only  the  feet  of  a  frog.  Cutting 
a  switch,  I  struck  the  snake  lightly  until  he  dis- 
gorged the  poor  frog,  or  rather  allowed  it  to 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    211 

back  out.  On  its  return  to  the  light  from  one 
of  the  very  darkest  of  death  valleys,  it  blinked  a 
moment  with  a  sort  of  dazed  look,  then  plunged 
into  a  stream,  apparently  happy  and  well. 

Frogs  abound  in  all  the  bogs,  marshes,  pools, 
and  lakes,  however  cold  and  high  and  isolated. 
How  did  they  manage  to  get  up  these  high 
mountains  ?  Surely  not  by  jumping.  Long  and 
dry  excursions  through  weary  miles  of  boulders 
and  brush  would  be  trying  to  frogs.  Most  likely 
their  stringy  spawn  is  carried  on  the  feet  of  ducks, 
cranes,  and  other  waterbirds.  Anyhow,  they  are 
most  thoroughly  distributed,  and  flourish  fa- 
mously. What  a  cheery,  hearty  set  they  are, 
and  how  bravely  their  krink  and  tronk  concerts 
enliven  the  rocky  wilderness  ! 

None  of  the  high-lying  mountain  lakes  or 
branches  of  the  rivers  above  sheer  falls  had  fish 
of  any  sort  until  stocked  by  the  agency  of  man. 
In  the  high  Sierra,  the  only  river  in  which  trout 
exist  naturally  is  the  middle  fork  of  Kings  River. 
There  are  no  sheer  falls  on  this  stream  ;  some  of 
the  rapids,  however,  are  so  swift  and  rough,  even 
at  the  lowest  stage  of  water,  that  it  is  surprising 
any  fish  can  climb  them.  I  found  trout  in 
abundance  in  this  fork  up  to  seventy-five  hundred 
feet.  They  also  run  quite  high  on  the  Kern. 
On  the  Merced  they  get  no  higher  than  Yosemite 
Valley,  four  thousand  feet,  all  the  forks  of  the 
river  being  barred  there  by  sheer  falls,  and  on 


212  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  main  Tuolumne  they  are  stopped  by  a  fall 
below  Hetch-Hetchy,  still  lower  than  Yosemite. 
Though  these  upper  waters  are  inaccessible  to 
the  fish,  one  would  suppose  their  eggs  might 
have  been  planted  there  by  some  means.  Nature 
has  so  many  ways  of  doing  such  things.  In  this 
case  she  waited  for  the  agency  of  man,  and  now 
many  of  these  hitherto  fishless  lakes  and  streams 
are  full  of  fine  trout,  stocked  by  individual  enter- 
prise, Walton  clubs,  etc.,  in  great  part  under  the 
auspices  of  the  United  States  Fish  Commission. 
A  few  trout  carried  into  Hetch-Hetchy  in  a  com- 
mon water-bucket  have  multiplied  wonderfully 
fast.  Lake  Tenaya,  at  an  elevation  of  over  eight 
thousand  feet,  was  stocked  eight  years  ago  by 
Mr.  Murphy,  who  carried  a  few  trout  from  Yo- 
semite. Many  of  the  small  streams  of  the  east- 
ern slope  have  also  been  stocked  with  trout  trans- 
ported over  the  passes  in  tin  cans  on  the  backs 
of  mules.  Soon,  it  would  seem,  all  the  streams 
of  the  range  will  be  enriched  by  these  lively  fish, 
and  will  become  the  means  of  drawing  thousands 
of  visitors  into  the  mountains.  Catching  trout 
with  a  bit  of  bent  wire  is  a  rather  trivial  business, 
but  fortunately  people  fish  better  than  they  know. 
In  most  cases  it  is  the  man  who  is  caught. 
Trout-fishing  regarded  as  bait  for  catching  men, 
for  the  saving  of  both  body  and  soul,  is  impor- 
tant, and  deserves  all  the  expense  and  care  be- 
stowed on  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AMONG    THE    BIRDS     OF    THE    YOSEMITE 

TRAVELERS  in  the  Sierra  forests  usually  com- 
plain of  the  want  of  life.  "  The  trees/'  they 
say,  "  are  fine,  but  the  empty  stillness  is  deadly ; 
there  are  no  animals  to  be  seen,  no  birds.  We 
have  not  heard  a  song  in  all  the  woods."  And 
no  wonder !  They  go  in  large  parties  with  mules 
and  horses ;  they  make  a  great  noise ;  they  are 
dressed  in  outlandish,  unnatural  colors ;  every 
animal  shuns  them.  Even  the  frightened  pines 
would  run  away  if  they  could.  But  Nature- 
lovers,  devout,  silent,  open-eyed,  looking  and  lis- 
tening with  love,  find  no  lack  of  inhabitants  in 
these  mountain  mansions,  and  they  come  to  them 
gladly.  Not  to  mention  the  large  animals  or  the 
small  insect  people,  every  waterfall  has  its  ouzel 
and  every  tree  its  squirrel  or  tamias  or  bird : 
tiny  nuthatch  threading  the  furrows  of  the  bark, 
cheerily  whispering  to  itself  as  it  deftly  pries  off 
loose  scales  and  examines  the  curled  edges  of 
lichens;  or  Clarke  crow  or  jay  examining  the 
cones ;  or  some  singer  —  oriole,  tanager,  warbler 
-—  resting,  feeding,  attending  to  domestic  affairs. 


214  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Hawks  and  eagles  sail  overhead,  grouse  walk  in 
happy  flocks  below,  and  song  sparrows  sing  in 
every  bed  of  chaparral.  There  is  no  crowding, 
to  be  sure.  Unlike  the  low  Eastern  trees,  those 
of  the  Sierra  in  the  main  forest  belt  average  nearly 
two  hundred  feet  in  height,  and  of  course  many 
birds  are  required  to  make  much  show  in  them, 
and  many  voices  to  fill  them.  Nevertheless,  the 
whole  range,  from  foothills  to  snowy  summits,  is 
shaken  into  song  every  summer ;  and  though  low 
and  thin  in  winter,  the  music  never  ceases. 

The  sage  cock  (Centrocercus  urophasianus) 
is  the  largest  of  the  Sierra  game-birds  and  the 
king  of  American  grouse.  It  is  an  admirably 
strong,  hardy,  handsome,  independent  bird,  able 
with  comfort  to  bid  defiance  to  heat,  cold, 
drought,  hunger,  and  all  sorts  of  storms,  living 
on  whatever  seeds  or  insects  chance  to  come  in 
its  way,  or  simply  on  the  leaves  of  sage-brush, 
everywhere  abundant  on  its  desert  range.  In 
winter,  when  the  temperature  is  oftentimes  below 
zero,  and  heavy  snowstorms  are  blowing,  he  sits 
beneath  a  sage  bush  and  allows  himself  to  be 
covered,  poking  his  head  now  and  then  through 
the  snow  to  feed  on  the  leaves  of  his  shelter. 
Not  even  the  Arctic  ptarmigan  is  hardier  in  brav- 
ing frost  and  snow  and  wintry  darkness.  When 
in  full  plumage  he  is  a  beautiful  bird,  with  a 
long,  firm,  sharp-pointed  tail,  which  in  walking 
is  slightly  raised  and  swings  sidewise  back  and 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE     215 

forth  with  each  step.  The  male  is  handsomely 
marked  with  black  and  white  on  the  neck,  back, 
and  wings,  weighs  five  or  six  pounds,  and  mea- 
sures about  thirty  inches  in  length.  The  female 
is  clad  mostly  in  plain  brown,  and  is  not  so  large. 
They  occasionally  wander  from  the  sage  plains 
into  the  open  nut-pine  and  juniper  woods,  but 
never  enter  the  main  coniferous  forest.  It  is 
only  in  the  broad,  dry,  half-desert  sage  plains 
that  they  are  quite  at  home,  where  the  weather 
is  blazing  hot  in  summer,  cold  in  winter.  If  any 
one  passes  through  a  flock,  all  squat  on  the  gray 
ground  and  hold  their  heads  low,  hoping  to  es- 
cape observation ;  but  when  approached  within 
a  rod  or  so,  they  rise  with  a  magnificent  burst  of 
wing-beats,  looking  about  as  big  as  turkeys  and 
making  a  noise  like  a  whirlwind. 

On  the  28th  of  June,  at  the  head  of  Owen's 
Valley,  I  caught  one  of  the  young  that  was  then 
just  able  to  fly.  It  was  seven  inches  long,  of  a 
uniform  gray  color,  blunt-billed,  and  when  cap- 
tured cried  lustily  in  a  shrill  piping  voice,  clear 
in  tone  as  a  boy's  small  willow  whistle.  I  have 
seen  flocks  of  from  ten  to  thirty  or  forty  on  the 
east  margin  of  the  Park,  where  the  Mono  Desert 
meets  the  gray  foothills  of  the  Sierra ;  but  since 
cattle  have  been  pastured  there  they  are  becom- 
ing rarer  every  year. 

,     Another  magnificent  bird,  the  blue  or  dusky 
grouse,  next  in  size  to  the  sage  cock,  is  found  all 


216  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

through  the  main  forest  belt,  though  not  in  great 
numbers.  They  like  best  the  heaviest  silver-fir 
woods  near  garden  and  meadow  openings,  where 
there  is  but  little  underbrush  to  cover  the  ap- 
proach of  enemies.  When  a  flock  of  these  brave 
birds,  sauntering  and  feeding  on  the  sunny,  flow- 
ery levels  of  some  hidden  meadow  or  Yosemite 
valley  far  back  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains, 
see  a  man  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  they 
rise  with  hurried  notes  of  surprise  and  excitement 
and  alight  on  the  lowest  branches  of  the  trees, 
wondering  what  the  wanderer  may  be,  and  show- 
ing great  eagerness  to  get  a  good  view  of  the 
strange  vertical  animal.  Knowing  nothing  of 
guns,  they  allow  you  to  approach  within  a  half 
dozen  paces,  then  quietly  hop  a  few  branches 
higher  or  fly  to  the  next  tree  without  a  thought 
of  concealment,  so  that  you  may  observe  them  as 
long  as  you  like,  near  enough  to  see  the  fine 
shading  of  their  plumage,  the  feathers  on  their 
toes,  and  the  innocent  wonderment  in  their  beau- 
tiful wild  eyes.  But  in  the  neighborhood  of 
roads  and  trails  they  soon  become  shy,  and  when 
disturbed  fly  into  the  highest,  leafiest  trees,  and 
suddenly  become  invisible,  so  well  do  they  know 
how  to  hide  and  keep  still  and  make  use  of  their 
protective  coloring.  Nor  can  they  be  easily  dis- 
lodged ere  they  are  ready  to  go.  In  vain  the 
hunter  goes  round  and  round  some  tall  pine  or 
fir  into  which  he  has  perhaps  seen  a  dozen  enter. 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    217 

gazing  up  through  the  branches,  straining  his 
eyes  while  his  gun  is  held  ready ;  not  a  feather 
can  he  see  unless  his  eyes  have  been  sharpened 
by  long  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  blue 
grouse's  habits.  Then,  perhaps,  when  he  is 
thinking  that  the  tree  must  be  hollow  and  that 
the  birds  have  all  gone  inside,  they  burst  forth 
with  a  startling  whir  of  wing-beats,  and  after 
gaining  full  speed  go  skating  swiftly  away 
through  the  forest  arches  in  a  long,  silent,  wav- 
ering slide,  with  wings  held  steady. 

During  the  summer  they  are  most  of  the  time 
on  the  ground,  feeding  on  insects,  seeds,  berries, 
etc.,  around  the  margins  of  open  spots  and  rocky 
moraines,  playing  and  sauntering,  taking  sun 
baths  and  sand  baths,  and  drinking  at  little  pools 
and  rills  during  the  heat  of  the  day.  In  winter 
they  live  mostly  in  the  trees,  depending  on  buds 
for  food,  sheltering  beneath  dense  overlapping 
branches  at  night  and  during  storms  on  the  lee- 
side  of  the  trunk,  sunning  themselves  on  the 
southside  limbs  in  fine  weather,  and  sometimes 
diving  into  the  mealy  snow  to  flutter  and  wallow, 
apparently  for  exercise  and  fun. 

I  have  seen  young  broods  running  beneath  the 
firs  in  June  at  a  height  of  eight  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  On  the  approach  of  danger,  the 
mother  with  a  peculiar  cry  warns  the  helpless 
midgets  to  scatter  and  hide  beneath  leaves  and 
twigs,  and  even  in  plain  open  places  it  is  almost 


218  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

impossible  to  discover  them.  In  the  meantime 
the  mother  feigns  lameness,  throws  herself  at 
your  feet,  kicks  and  gasps  and  flutters,  to  draw 
your  attention  from  the  chicks.  The  young  are 
generally  able  to  fly  about  the  middle  of  July  ; 
but  even  after  they  can  fly  well  they  are  usually 
advised  to  run  and  hide  and  lie  still,  no  matter 
how  closely  approached,  while  the  mother  goes 
on  with  her  loving,  lying  acting,  apparently  as 
desperately  concerned  for  their  safety  as  when 
they  were  featherless  infants.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, after  carefully  studying  the  circumstances, 
she  tells  them  to  take  wing ;  and  up  and  away 
in  a  blurry  birr  and  whir  they  scatter  to  all  points 
of  the  compass,  as  if  blown  up  with  gunpowder, 
dropping  cunningly  out  of  sight  three  or  four 
hundred  yards  off,  and  keeping  quiet  until  called, 
after  the  danger  is  supposed  to  be  past.  If  you 
walk  on  a  little  way  without  manifesting  any  in- 
clination to  hunt  them,  you  may  sit  down  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree  near  enough  to  see  and  hear  the 
happy  reunion.  One  touch  of  nature  makes  the 
whole  world  kin  ;  and  it  is  truly  wonderful  how 
love-telling  the  small  voices  of  these  birds  are, 
and  how  far  they  reach  through  the  woods  into 
one  another's  hearts  and  into  ours.  The  tones 
are  so  perfectly  human  and  so  full  of  anxious 
affection,  few  mountaineers  can  fail  to  be  touched 
by  them. 

They  are  cared  for  until  full  grown.     On  the 


V 

AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OI^^E  YOSEMITE    219 

20th  of  August,  as  I  was  passing  along  the  mar- 
gin of  a  garden  spot  on  the  head-waters  of  the 
San  Joaquin,  a  grouse  rose  from  the  ruins  of  an 
old  juniper  that  had  been  uprooted  and  brought 
down  by  an  avalanche  from  a  cliff  overhead. 
She  threw  herself  at  my  feet,  limped  and  flut- 
tered and  gasped,  showing,  as  I  thought,  that 
she  had  a  nest  and  was  raising  a  second  brood. 
Looking  for  the  eggs,  I  was  surprised  to  see  a 
strong-winged  flock  nearly  as  large  as  the  mo- 
ther fly  up  around  me. 

Instead  of  seeking  a  warmer  climate  when  the 
winter  storms  set  in,  these  hardy  birds  stay  all 
the  year  in  the  high  Sierra  forests,  and  I  have 
never  known  them  to  suffer  in  any  sort  of  wea- 
ther. Able  to  live  on  the  buds  of  pine,  spruce, 
and  fir,  they  are  forever  independent  in  the 
matter  of  food  supply,  which  gives  so  many  of 
us  trouble,  dragging  us  here  and  there  away 
from  our  best  work.  How  gladly  I  would  live 
on  pine  buds,  however  pitchy,  for  the  sake  of 
this  grand  independence!  With  all  his  superior 
resources,  man  makes  more  distracting  difficulty 
concerning  food  than  any  other  of  the  family. 

The  mountain  quail,  or  plumed  partridge  ( Ore- 
ortyx  pictus  plumiferus)  is  common  in  all  the 
upper  portions  of  the  Park,  though  nowhere  in 
numbers.  He  ranges  considerably  higher  than 
the  grouse  in  summer,  but  is  unable  to  endure 
the  heavy  storms  of  winter.  When  his  food  is 


220  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

buried,  he  descends  the  range  to  the  brushy 
foothills,  at  a  height  of  from  two  thousand  to 
three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea;  but  like 
every  true  mountaineer,  he  is  quick  to  follow 
the  spring  back  into  the  highest  mountains.  I 
think  he  is  the  very  handsomest  and  most  inter- 
esting of  all  the  American  partridges,  larger  and 
handsomer  than  the  famous  Bob  White,  or  even 
the  fine  California  valley  quail,  or  the  Massena 
partridge  of  Arizona  and  Mexico.  That  he  is 
not  so  regarded,  is  because  as  a  lonely  moun- 
taineer he  is  not  half  known. 

His  plumage  is  delicately  shaded,  brown 
above,  white  and  rich  chestnut  below  and  on  the 
sides,  with  many  dainty  markings  of  black  and 
white  and  gray  here  and  there/while  his  beauti- 
ful head  plume,  three  or  four  Inches  long,  nearly 
straight,  composed  of  two  feathers  closely  folded 
so  as  to  appear  as  one,  is  worn  jauntily  slanted 
backward  like  a  single  feather  in  a  boy's  cap, 
giving  him  a  very  marked  appearance.  They 
wander  over  the  lonely  mountains  in  family 
flocks  of  from  six  to  fifteen,  beneath  ceanothus, 
manzanita,  and  wild  cherry  thickets,  and  over 
dry  sandy  flats,  glacier  meadows,  rocky  ridges, 
and  beds  of  Bryanthus  around  glacier  lakes, 
especially  in  autumn,  when  the  berries  of  the 
upper  gardens  are  ripe,  uttering  low  clucking 
notes  to  enable  them  to  keep  together.  When 
they  are  so  suddenly  disturbed  that  they  are 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE     221 

afraid  they  cannot  escape  the  danger  by  running 
into  thickets,  they  rise  with  a  fine  hearty  whir 
and  scatter  in  the  brush  over  an  area  of  half  a 
square  mile  or  so,  a  few  of  them  diving  into 
leafy  trees;  But  as  soon  as  the  danger  is  past, 
the  parents  with  a  clear  piping  note  call  them 
together  again.  By  the  end  of  July  the  young 
are  two  thirds  grown  and  fly  well,  though  only 
dire  necessity  can  compel  them  to  try  their 
wings.  In  gait,  gestures,  habits,  and  general 
behavior  they  are  like  domestic  chickens,  but  in- 
finitely finer,  searching  for  insects  and  seeds, 
looking  to  this  side  and  that,  scratching  among 
fallen  leaves,  jumping  up  to  pull  down  grass 
heads,  and  clucking  and  muttering  in  low  tones. 
Once  when  I  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  a  tree 
on  the  head-waters  of  the  Merced,  sketching,  I 
heard  a  flock  up  the  valley  behind  me,  and  by 
their  voices  gradually  sounding  nearer  I  knew 
that  they  were  feeding  toward  me.  I  kept  still, 
hoping  to  see  them.  Soon  one  came  within 
three  or  four  feet  of  me,  without  noticing  me 
any  more  than  if  I  were  a  stump  or  a  bulging 
part  of  the  trunk  against  which  I  was  leaning, 
my  clothing  being  brown,  nearly  like  the  bark. 
Presently  along  came  another  and  another,  and 
it  was  delightful  to  get  so  near  a  view  of  these 
handsome  chickens  perfectly  undisturbed,  ob- 
serve their  manners,  and  hear  their  low  peace- 
ful notes.  At  last  one  of  them  caught  my  eye, 


222  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

gazed  in  silent  wonder  for  a  moment,  then  ut- 
tered a  peculiar  cry,  which  was  followed  by  a  lot 
of  hurried  muttered  notes  that  sounded  like 
speech.  The  others,  of  course,  saw  me  as  soon 
as  the  alarm  was  sounded,  and  joined  the  won- 
der talk,  gazing  and  chattering,  astonished  but 
not  frightened.  Then  all  with  one  accord  ran 
back  with  the  news  to  the  rest  of  the  flock. 
"  What  is  it  ?  what  is  it  ?  Oh,  you  never  saw 
the  like,"  they  seemed  to  be  saying.  "  Not  a 
deer,  or  a  wolf,  or  a  bear ;  come  see,  come  see." 
"Where?  where?"  "Down  there  by  that 
tree."  Then  they  approached  cautiously,  past 
the  tree,  stretching  their  necks,  and  looking  up 
in  turn  as  if  knowing  from  the  story  told  them 
just  where  I  was.  For  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes 
they  kept  coming  and  going,  venturing  within 
a  few  feet  of  me,  and  discussing  the  wonder  in 
charming  chatter.  Their  curiosity  at  last  satis- 
fied, they  began  to  scatter  and  feed  again,  going 
back  in  the  direction  they  had  come  from; 
while  I,  loath  to  part  with  them,  followed  noise- 
lessly, crawling  beneath  the  bushes,  keeping 
them  in  sight  for  an  hour  or  two,  learning  their 
habits,  and  finding  out  what  seeds  and  berries 
they  liked  best. 

The  valley  quail  is  not  a  mountaineer,  and 
seldom  enters  the  Park  except  at  a  few  of  the 
lowest  places  on  the  western  boundary.  It  be- 
longs to  the  brushy  foothills  and  plains,  orchards 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE     223 

and  wheatfields,  and  is  a  hundred  times  more 
numerous  than  the  mountain  quail.  It  is  a 
beautiful  bird,  about  the  size  of  the  Bob  White, 
and  has  a  handsome  crest  of  four  or  five  feathers 
an  inch  long,  recurved,  standing  nearly  erect  at 
times  or  drooping  forward.  The  loud  calls  of 
these  quails  in  the  spring  —  Pe-check-ah,  Pe- 
check-a,  Hoy,  Hoy  —  are  heard  far  and  near  over 
all  the  lowlands.  They  have  vastly  increased 
in  numbers  since  the  settlement  of  the  country, 
notwithstanding  the  immense  numbers  killed 
every  season  by  boys  and  pot-hunters  as  well  as 
the  regular  leggined  sportsmen  from  the  towns ; 
for  man's  destructive  action  is  more  than  coun- 
terbalanced by  increased  supply  of  food  from 
cultivation,  and  by  the  destruction  of  their  ene- 
mies—  coyotes,  skunks,  foxes,  hawks,  owls,  etc. 
—  which  not  only  kill  the  old  birds,  but  plunder 
their  nests.  Where  coyotes  and  skunks  abound, 
scarce  one  pair  in  a  hundred  is  successful  in 
raising  a  brood.  So  well  aware  are  these  birds 
of  the  protection  afforded  by  man,  even  now 
that  the  number  of  their  wild  enemies  has  been 
greatly  diminished,  that  they  prefer  to  nest  near 
houses,  notwithstanding  they  are  so  shy.  Four 
or  five  pairs  rear  their  young  around  our  cottage 
every  spring.  One  year  a  pair  nested  in  a  straw 
pile  within  four  or  five  feet  of  the  stable  door, 
and  did  not  leave  the  eggs  when  the  men  led  the 
horses  back  and  forth  within  a  foot  or  two.  For 


224  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

many  seasons  a  pair  nested  in  a  tuft  of  pampas 
grass  in  the  garden  ;  another  pair  in  an  ivy  vine 
on  the  cottage  roof,  and  when  the  young  were 
hatched,  it  was  interesting  to  see  the  parents  get- 
ting the  fluffy  dots  down.  They  were  greatly 
excited,  and  their  anxious  calls  and  directions  to 
their  many  babes  attracted  our  attention.  They 
had  no  great  difficulty  in  persuading  the  young 
birds  to  pitch  themselves  from  the  main  roof  to 
the  porch  roof  among  the  ivy,  but  to  get  them 
safely  down  from  the  latter  to  the  ground,  a 
distance  of  ten  feet,  was  most  distressing.  It 
seemed  impossible  the  frail  soft  things  could  avoid 
being  killed.  The  anxious  parents  led  them  to 
a  point  above  a  spiraea  bush,  that  reached  nearly 
to  the  eaves,  which  they  seemed  to  know  would 
break  the  fall.  Anyhow  they  led  their  chicks 
to  this  point,  and  with  infinite  coaxing  and  en- 
couragement got  them  to  tumble  themselves  off. 
Down  they  rolled  and  sifted  through  the  soft 
leaves  and  panicles  to  the  pavement,  and,  strange 
to  say,  all  got  away  unhurt  except  one  that  lay 
as  if  dead  for  a  few  minutes.  When  it  re- 
vived, the  joyful  parents,  with  their  brood  fairly 
launched  on  the  journey  of  life,  proudly  led 
them  down  the  cottage  hill,  through  the  gar- 
den, and  along  an  osage  orange  hedge  into  the 
cherry  orchard.  These  charming  birds  even  en- 
ter towns  and  villages,  where  the  gardens  are 
of  good  size  and  guns  are  forbidden,  sometimes 


AMONG  THE   BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    225 

going  several  miles  to  feed,  and  returning  every 
evening  to  their  roosts  in  ivy  or  brushy  trees 
and  shrubs. 

Geese  occasionally  visit  the  Park,  but  never 
stay  long.  Sometimes  on  their  way  across  the 
range,  a  flock  wanders  into  Hetch-Hetchy  or 
Yosemite  to  rest  or  get  something  to  eat,  and 
if  shot  at,  are  often  sorely  bewildered  in  seek- 
ing a  way  out.  I  have  seen  them  rise  from  the 
meadow  or  river,  wheel  round  in  a  spiral  until  a 
height  of  four  or  five  hundred  feet  was  reached, 
then  form  ranks  and  try  to  fly  over  the  wall. 
But  Yosemite  magnitudes  seem  to  be  as  deceptive 
to  geese  as  to  men,  for  they  would  suddenly  find 
themselves  against  the  cliffs  not  a  fourth  of  the 
way  to  the  top.  Then  turning  in  confusion,  and 
screaming  at  the  strange  heights,  they  would  try 
the  opposite  side,  and  so  on  until  exhausted  they 
were  compelled  to  rest,  and  only  after  discover- 
ing the  river  canon  could  they  make  their  escape. 
Large,  harrow-shaped  flocks  may  often  be  seen 
crossing  the  range  in  the  spring,  at  a  height  of 
at  least  fourteen  thousand  feet.  Think  of  the 
strength  of  wing  required  to  sustain  so  heavy  a 
bird  in  air  so  thin.  At  this  elevation  it  is  but 
little  over  half  as  dense  as  at  the  sea  level.  Yet 
they  hold  bravely  on  in  beautifully  dressed 
ranks,  and  have  breath  enough  to  spare  for 
loud  honking.  After  the  crest  of  the  Sierra  is 
passed  it  is  only  a  smooth  slide  down  the  sky  to 


226  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  waters  of  Mono,  where  they  may  rest  as  long 
as  they  like. 

Ducks  of  five  or  six  species,  among  which  are 
the  mallard  and  wood  duck,  go  far  up  into  the 
heart  of  the  mountains  in  the  spring,  and  of 
course  come  down  in  the  fall  with  the  families 
they  have  reared.  A  few,  as  if  loath  to  leave 
the  mountains,  pass  the  winter  in  the  lower  val- 
leys of  the  Park  at  a  height  of  three  thousand  to 
four  thousand  feet,  where  the  main  streams  are 
never  wholly  frozen  over,  and  snow  never  falls  to 
a  great  depth  or  lies  long.  In  summer  they  are 
found  up  to  a  height  of  eleven  thousand  feet  on 
all  the  lakes  and  branches  of  the  rivers  except 
the  smallest,  and  those  beside  the  glaciers  in  cum- 
bered with  drifting  ice  and  snow.  I  found  mal- 
lards and  wood  ducks  at  Lake  Tenaya,  June  1, 
before  the  ice-covering  was  half  melted,  and  a 
flock  of  young  ones  in  Bloody  Canon  Lake,  June 
20.  They  are  usually  met  in  pairs,  never  in  large 
flocks.  No  place  is  too  wild  or  rocky  or  solitary 
for  these  brave  swimmers,  no  stream  too  rapid. 
In  the  roaring,  resounding  canon  torrents,  they 
seem  as  much  at  home  as  in  the  tranquil  reaches 
and  lakes  of  the  broad  glacial  valleys.  Aban- 
doning themselves  to  the  wild  play  of  the  waters, 
they  go  drifting  confidingly  through  blinding, 
thrashing  spray,  dancing  on  boulder-dashed 
waves,  tossing  in  beautiful  security  on  rougher 
water  than  is  usually  encountered  by  sea  birds 
when  storms  are  blowing. 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    227 

A  mother  duck  with  her  family  of  ten  little 
ones,  waltzing  round  and  round  in  a  pot-hole 
ornamented  with  foam  bells,  huge  rocks  leaning 
over  them,  cascades  above  and  below  and  beside 
them,  made  one  of  the  most  interesting  bird 
pictures  I  ever  saw. 

I  have  never  found  the  great  northern  diver 
in  the  Park  lakes.  Most  of  them  are  inaccessible 
to  him.  He  might  plump  down  into  them,  but 
would  hardly  be  able  to  get  out  of  them,  since, 
with  his  small  wings  and  heavy  body,  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  elbow  room  is  required  in  rising.  Now 
and  then  one  may  be  seen  in  the  lower  Sierra 
lakes  to  the  northward  about  Lassens  Butte  and 
Shasta,  at  a  height  of  four  thousand  to  five  thou- 
sand feet,  making  the  loneliest  places  lonelier 
with  the  wildest  of  wild  cries. 

Plovers  are  found  along  the  sandy  shores  of 
nearly  all  the  mountain  lakes,  tripping  daintily 
on  the  water's  edge,  picking  up  insects ;  and  it  is 
interesting  to  learn  how  few  of  these  familiar 
birds  are  required  to  make  a  solitude  cheerful. 

Sandhill  cranes  are  sometimes  found  in  corn 
paratively  small  marshes,  mere  dots  in  the 
mighty  forest.  In  such  spots,  at  an  elevation  of 
from  six  thousand  to  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  they  are  occasionally  met  in  pairs  as 
early  as  the  end  of  May,  while  the  snow  is  still 
deep  in  the  surrounding  fir  and  sugar-pine 
woods.  And  on  sunny  days  in  autumn,  large 


228  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

flocks  may  be  seen  sailing  at  a  great  height 
above  the  forests,  shaking  the  crisp  air  into  roll- 
ing waves  with  their  hearty  koor-r-r,  koor-r-r, 
uck-uck,  soaring  in  circles  for  hours  together  on 
their  majestic  wings,  seeming  to  float  without 
effort  like  clouds,  eying  the  wrinkled  landscape 
outspread  like  a  map  mottled  with  lakes  and  gla- 
ciers and  meadows  and  streaked  with  shadowy 
canons  and  streams,  and  surveying  every  frog 
marsh  and  sandy  flat  within  a  hundred  miles. 

Eagles  and  hawks  are  oftentimes  seen  above  the 
ridges  and  domes.  The  greatest  height  at  which 
I  have  observed  them  was  about  twelve  thousand 
feet,  over  the  summits  of  Mount  Hoffman,  in 
the  middle  region  of  the  Park.  A  few  pairs 
had  their  nests  on  the  cliffs  of  this  mountain, 
and  could  be  seen  every  day  in  summer,  hunting 
marmots,  mountain  beavers,  pikas,  etc.  A  pair 
of  golden  eagles  have  made  their  home  in  Yo- 
semite  ever  since  I  went  there  thirty  years  ago. 
Their  nest  is  on  the  Nevada  Fall  Cliff,  opposite 
the  Liberty  Cap.  Their  screams  are  rather 
pleasant  to  hear  in  the  vast  gulfs  between  the 
granite  cliffs,  and  they  help  the  owls  in  keeping 
the  echoes  busy. 

But  of  all  the  birds  of  the  high  Sierra,  the 
strangest,  noisiest,  and  most  notable  is  the  Clarke 
crow  (Nucifraga  columbiand).  He  is  a  foot 
long  and  nearly  two  feet  in  extent  of  wing,  ashy 
gray  in  general  color,  with  black  wings,  white 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE     229 

tail,  and  a  strong,  sharp  bill,  with  which  he  digs 
into  the  pine  cones  for  the  seeds  on  which  he 
mainly  subsists.  He  is  quick,  boisterous,  jerky, 
and  irregular  in  his  movements  and  speech, 
and  makes  a  tremendously  loud  and  showy  ad- 
vertisement of  himself,  —  swooping  and  diving 
in  deep  curves  across  gorges  and  valleys  from 
ridge  to  ridge,  alighting  on  dead  spars,  looking 
warily  about  him,  and  leaving  his  dry  springy 
perches,  trembling  from  the  vigor  of  his  kick  as 
he  launches  himself  for  a  new  flight,  screaming 
from  time  to  time  loud  enough  to  be  heard  more 
than  a  mile  in  still  weather.  \  He  dwells  far  back 
on  the  high  stormbeaten  margin  of  the  forest, 
where  the  mountain  pine,  juniper,  and  hemlock 
grow  wide  apart  on  glacier  pavements  and  domes 
and  rough  crumbling  ridges,  and  the  dwarf  pine 
makes  a  low  crinkled  growth  along  the  flanks 
of  the  Summit  peaks.  In  so  open  a  region,  of 
course,  he  is  well  seen.  Everybody  notices  him, 
and  nobody  at  first  knows  what  to  make  of  him. 
One  guesses  he  must  be  a  woodpecker;  another  a 
crow  or  some  sort  of  jay,  another  a  magpie.  He 
seems  to  be  a  pretty  thoroughly  mixed  and  fer- 
mented compound  of  all  these  birds,  has  all  their 
strength,  cunning,  shyness,  thievishness,  and 
wary,  suspicious  curiosity  combined  and  con- 
densed. He  flies  like  a  woodpecker,  hammers 
dead  limbs  for  insects,  digs  big  holes  in  pine 
cones  to  get  at  the  seeds,  cracks  nuts  held  be- 


230  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tween  his  toes,  cries  like  a  crow  or  Stellar  jay,  — 
but  in  a  far  louder,  harsher,  and  more  forbidding 
tone  of  voice,  —  and  besides  his  crow  caws  and 
screams,  has  a  great  variety  of  small  chatter  talk, 
mostly  uttered  in  a  fault-finding  tone.  Like  the 
magpie,  he  steals  articles  that  can  be  of  no  use  to 
him.  Once  when  I  made  my  camp  in  a  grove 
at  Cathedral  Lake,  I  chanced  to  leave  a  cake  of 
soap  on  the  shore  where  I  had  been  washing,  and 
a  few  minutes  afterward  I  saw  my  soap  flying 
past  me  through  the  grove,  pushed  by  a  Clarke 
crow. 

In  winter,  when  the  snow  is  deep,  the  cones  of 
the  mountain  pines  are  empty,  and  the  juniper, 
hemlock,  and  dwarf  pine  orchard  buried,  he  comes 
down  to  glean  seeds  in  the  yellow  pine  forests, 
startling  the  grouse  with  his  loud  screams.  But 
even  in  winter,  in  calm  weather,  he  stays  in  his 
high  mountain  home,  defying  the  bitter  frost. 
Once  I  lay  snowbound  through  a  three  days' 
storm  at  the  timber-line  on  Mount  Shasta ;  and 
while  the  roaring  snow-laden  blast  swept  by,  one 
of  these  brave  birds  came  to  my  camp,  and  began 
hammering  at  the  cones  on  the  topmost  branches 
of  half-buried  pines,  without  showing  the  slight- 
est distress.  I  have  seen  Clarke  crows  feeding 
their  young  as  early  as  June  19,  at  a  height  of 
more  than  ten  thousand  feet,  when  nearly  the 
whole  landscape  was  snow-covered. 

They  are  excessively  shy,  and  keep  away  from 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    231 

the  traveler  as  long  as  they  think  they  are  ob- 
served ;  but  when  one  goes  on  without  seeming 
to  notice  them,  or  sits  down  and  keeps  still,  their 
curiosity  speedily  gets  the  better  of  their  cau- 
tion, and  they  come  flying  from  tree  to  tree, 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  watch  every  motion.  Few, 
I  am  afraid,  will  ever  learn  to  like  this  bird,  he  is 
so  suspicious  and  self-reliant,  and  his  voice  is  so 
harsh  that  to  most  ears  the  scream  of  the  eagle 
will  seem  melodious  compared  with  it.  Yet  the 
mountaineer  who  has  battled  and  suffered  and 
struggled  must  admire  his  strength  and  endur- 
ance, —  the  way  he  faces  the  mountain  weather, 
cleaves  the  icy  blasts,  cares  for  his  young,  and 
digs  a  living  from  the  stern  wilderness. 

Higher  yet  than  Nucifraga  dwells  the  little 
dun-headed  sparrow  (Leucosticte  tephrocotis). 
From  early  spring  to  late  autumn  he  is  to  be 
found  only  on  the  snowy,  icy  peaks  at  the  head 
of  the  glacier  cirques  and  canons.  His  feeding 
grounds  in  spring  are  the  snow  sheets  between 
the  peaks,  and  in  midsummer  and  autumn  the 
glaciers.  Many  bold  insects  go  mountaineering 
almost  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  ascending  the 
highest  summits  on  the  mild  breezes  that  blow 
in  from  the  sea  every  day  during  steady  weather ; 
but  comparatively  few  of  these  adventurers  find 
their  way  down  or  see  a  flower  bed  again.  Get- 
ting tired  and  chilly,  they  alight  on  the  snow 
field?  and  glaciers,  attracted  perhaps  by  the 


232  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

glare,  take  cold,  and  die.  There  they  lie  as  if 
on  a  white  cloth  purposely  outspread  for  them, 
and  the  dun  sparrows  find  them  a  rich  and  varied 
repast  requiring  no  pursuit,  —  bees  and  butter- 
flies on  ice,  and  many  spicy  beetles,  a  perpetual 
feast,  on  tables  big  for  guests  so  small,  and  in 
vast  banqueting  halls  ventilated  by  cool  breezes 
that  ruffle  the  feathers  of  the  fairy  brownies. 
Happy  fellows,  no  rivals  come  to  dispute  posses- 
sion with  them.  No  other  birds,  not  even  hawks, 
as  far  as  I  have  noticed,  live  so  high.  They 
see  people  so  seldom,  they  flutter  around  the  ex- 
plorer with  the  liveliest  curiosity,  and  come  down 
a  little  way,  sometimes  nearly  a  mile,  to  meet  him 
and  conduct  him  into  their  icy  homes. 

When  I  was  exploring  the  Merced  group, 
climbing  up  the  grand  canon  between  the  Merced 
and  Red  mountains  into  the  fountain  amphi- 
theatre of  an  ancient  glacier,  just  as  I  was  ap- 
proaching the  small  active  glacier  that  leans  back 
in  the  shadow  of  Merced  Mountain,  a  flock  of 
twenty  or  thirty  of  these  little  birds,  the  first  I 
had  seen,  came  down  the  canon  to  meet  me,  fly- 
ing low,  straight  toward  me  as  if  they  meant  to 
fly  in  my  face.  Instead  of  attacking  me  or  pass- 
ing by,  they  circled  round  my  head,  chirping 
and  fluttering  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  turned 
and  escorted  me  up  the  canon,  alighting  on  the 
nearest  rocks  on  either  hand,  and  flying  ahead  a 
few  yards  at  a  time  to  keep  even  with  me. 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    233 

I  have  not  discovered  their  winter  quarters. 
Probably  they  are  in  the  desert  ranges  to  the 
eastward,  for  I  never  saw  any  of  them  in  Yo- 
semite,  the  winter  refuge  of  so  many  of  the 
mountain  birds. 

Humming-birds  are  among  the  best  and  most 
conspicuous  of  the  mountaineers,  flashing  their 
ruby  throats  in  countless  wild  gardens  far  up 
the  higher  slopes,  where  they  would  be  least 
expected.  All  one  has  to  do  to  enjoy  the  com- 
pany of  these  mountain-loving  midgets  is  to  dis- 
play a  showy  blanket  or  handkerchief. 

The  arctic  bluebird  is  another  delightful  moun- 
taineer, singing  a  wild,  cheery  song  and  "  carry- 
ing the  sky  on  his  back  "  over  all  the  gray  ridges 
and  domes  of  the  subalpine  region. 

A  fine,  hearty,  good-natured  lot  of  woodpeck- 
ers dwell  in  the  Park,  and  keep  it  lively  all  the 
year  round.  Among  the  most  notable  of  these 
are  the  magnificent  log  cock  (Ceophlceus  pilea-- 
tus\  the  prince  of  Sierra  woodpeckers,  and  only 
second  in  rank,  as  far  as  I  know,  of  all  the  wood- 
peckers of  the  world ;  the  Lewis  woodpecker, 
large,  black,  glossy,  that  flaps  and  flies  like  a 
crow,  does  but  little  hammering,  and  feeds  in 
great  part  on  wild  cherries  and  berries ;  and  the 
carpenter,  who  stores  up  great  quantities  of 
acorns  in  the  bark  of  trees  for  winter  use.  The 
last-named  species  is  a  beautiful  bird,  and  far 
more  common  than  the  others.  In  the  woods 


234  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  the  West  he  represents  the  Eastern  red-head. 
Bright,  cheerful,  industrious,  not  in  the  least  shy, 
the  carpenters  give  delightful  animation  to  the 
open  Sierra  forests  at  a  height  of  from  three 
thousand  to  fifty-five  hundred  feet,  especially  in 
autumn,  when  the  acorns  are  ripe.  Then  no 
squirrel  works  harder  at  his  pine-nut  harvest 
than  these  woodpeckers  at  their  acorn  harvest, 
drilling  holes  in  the  thick,  corky  bark  of  the 
yellow  pine  and  incense  cedar,  in  which  to  store 
the  crop  for  winter  use,  —  a  hole  for  each  acorn, 
so  nicely  adjusted  as  to  size  that  when  the 
acorn,  point  foremost,  is  driven  in,  it  fits  so 
well  that  it  cannot  be  drawn  out  without  dig- 
.ging  around  it.  Each  acorn  is  thus  carefully 
stored  in  a  dry  bin,  perfectly  protected  from  the 
weather,  —  a  most  laborious  method  of  stowing 
away  a  crop,  a  granary  for  each  kernel.  Yet 
the  birds  seem  never  to  weary  at  the  work,  but 
go  on  so  diligently  that  they  seem  determined  to 
save  every  acorn  in  the  grove.  They  are  never 
seen  eating  acorns  at  the  time  they  are  storing 
them,  and  it  is  commonly  believed  that  they 
never  eat  them  or  intend  to  eat  them,  but  that 
the  wise  birds  store  them  and  protect  them  from 
the  depredations  of  squirrels  and  jays,  solely  for 
the  sake  of  the  worms  they  are  supposed  to  con- 
tain. And  because  these  worms  are  too  small 
for  use  at  the  time  the  acorns  drop,  they  are 
shut  up  like  lean  calves  and  steers,  each  in  a 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS   OF  THE  YOSEMITE    235 

separate  stall  with  abundance  of  food,  to  grow 
big  and  fat  by  the  time  they  will  be  most  wanted, 
that  is,  in  winter,  when  insects  are  scarce  and 
stall-fed  worms  most  valuable.  So  these  wood- 
peckers are  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of  cattle-raisers, 
each  with  a  drove  of  thousands,  rivaling  the  ants 
that  raise  grain  and  keep  herds  of  plant  lice 
for  milk  cows.  Needless  to  say  the  story  is 
not  true,  though  some  naturalists,  even,  believe 
it.  When  Emerson  was  in  the  Park,  having 
heard  the  worm  story  and  seen  the  great  pines 
plugged  full  of  acorns,  he  asked  (just  to  pump 
me,  I  suppose),  "  Why  do  the  woodpeckers  take 
the  trouble  to  put  acorns  into  the  bark  of  the 
trees  ? "  "  For  the  same  reason,"  I  replied, 
"  that  bees  store  honey  and  squirrels  nuts." 
"  But  they  tell  me,  Mr.  Muir,  that  woodpeckers 
don't  eat  acorns."  "  Yes,  they  do,"  I  said,  "  I 
have  seen  them  eating  them.  During  snow- 
storms they  seem  to  eat  little  besides  acorns.  I 
have  repeatedly  interrupted  them  at  their  meals, 
and  seen  the  perfectly  sound,  half-eaten  acorns. 
They  eat  them  in  the  shell  as  some  people  eat 
eggs."  "But  what  about  the  worms?"  "I 
suppose,"  I  said,  "  that  when  they  come  to  a 
wormy  one  they  eat  both  worm  and  acorn. 
Anyhow,  they  eat  the  sound  ones  when  they 
can't  find  anything  they  like  better,  and  from 
the  time  they  store  them  until  they  are  used  they 
guard  them,  and  woe  to  the  squirrel  or  jay 


236  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

caught  stealing."  Indians,  in  times  of  scarcity, 
frequently  resort  to  these  stores  and  chop  them 
out  with  hatchets;  a  bushel  or  more  may  be 
gathered  from  a  single  cedar  or  pine. 

The  common  robin,  with  all  his  familiar  notes 
and  gestures,  is  found  nearly  everywhere  through- 
out the  Park,  —  in  shady  dells  beneath  dogwoods 
and  maples,  along  the  flowery  banks  of  the 
streams,  tripping  daintily  about  the  margins  of 
meadows  in  the  fir  and  pine  woods,  and  far  be- 
yond on  the  shores  of  glacier  lakes  and  the 
slopes  of  the  peaks.  How  admirable  the  consti- 
tution and  temper  of  this  cheery,  graceful  bird, 
keeping  glad  health  over  so  vast  and  varied  a 
range.  In  all  America  he  is  at  home,  flying 
from  plains  to  mountains,  up  and  down,  north 
and  south,  away  and  back,  with  the  seasons  and 
supply  of  food.  Oftentimes  in  the  High  Sierra, 
as  you  wander  through  the  solemn  woods,  awe- 
stricken  and  silent,  you  will  hear  the  reassur- 
ing voice  of  this  fellow  wanderer  ringing  out 
sweet  and  clear  as  if  saying,  "  Fear  not,  fear 
not.  Only  love  is  here."  In  the  severest  soli- 
tudes he  seems  as  happy  as  in  gardens  and  apple 
orchards. 

The  robins  enter  the  Park  as  soon  as  the  snow 
melts,  and  go  on  up  the  mountains,  gradually 
higher,  with  the  opening  flowers,  until  the  top- 
most glacier  meadows  are  reached  in  June  and 
July.  After  the  short  summer  is  done,  they 


AMONG  THE  BIKDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    237 

descend  like  most  other  summer  visitors  in  con- 
cord with  the  weather,  keeping  out  of  the  first 
heavy  snows  as  much  as  possible,  while  lingering 
among  the  frost-nipped  wild  cherries  on  the 
slopes  just  below  the  glacier  meadows.  Thence 
they  go  to  the  lower  slopes  of  the  forest  region, 
compelled  to  make  haste  at  times  by  heavy  all- 
day  storms,  picking  up  seeds  or  benumbed  in- 
sects by  the  way ;  and  at  last  all,  save  a  few  that 
winter  in  Yosemite  valleys,  arrive  in  the  vine- 
yards and  orchards  and  stubble-fields  of  the  low- 
lands in  November,  picking  up  fallen  fruit  and 
grain,  and  awakening  old-time  memories  among 
the  white-headed  pioneers,  who  cannot  fail  to 
recognize  the  influence  of  so  homelike  a  bird. 
They  are  then  in  flocks  of  hundreds,  and  make 
their  way  into  the  gardens  of  towns  as  well  as 
into  the  parks  and  fields  and  orchards  about  the 
bay  of  San  Francisco,  where  many  of  the  wan- 
derers are  shot  for  sport  and  the  morsel  of  meat 
on  their  breasts.  Man  then  seems  a  beast  of 
prey.  Not  even  genuine  piety  can  make  the 
robin-killer  quite  respectable.  Saturday  is  the 
great  slaughter  day  in  the  bay  region.  Then 
the  city  pot-hunters,  with  a  rag-tag  of  boys,  go 
forth  to  kill,  kept  in  countenance  by  a  sprinkling 
of  regular  sportsmen  arrayed  in  self-conscious 
majesty  and  leggins,  leading  dogs  and  carrying 
hammerless,  breech-loading  guns  of  famous 
makers.  Over  the  fine  landscapes  the  killing 


238  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

goes  forward  with  shameful  enthusiasm.  After 
escaping  countless  dangers,  thousands  fall,  big 
bagfuls  are  gathered,  many  are  left  wounded  to 
die  slowly,  no  Red  Cross  Society  to  help  them. 
Next  day,  Sunday,  the  blood  and  leggins  vanish 
from  the  most  devout  of  the  bird-butchers,  who 
go  to  church,  carrying  gold-headed  canes  instead 
of  guns.  After  hymns,  prayers,  and  sermon 
they  go  home  to  feast,  to  put  God's  song  birds 
to  use,  put  them  in  their  dinners  instead  of  in 
their  hearts,  eat  them,  and  suck  the  pitiful  little 
drumsticks.  It  is  only  race  living  on  race,  to 
be  sure,  but  Christians  singing  Divine  Love  need 
not  be  driven  to  such  straits  while  wheat  and 
apples  grow  and  the  shops  are  full  of  dead  cattle. 
Song  birds  for  food  !  Compared  with  this,  mak- 
ing kindlings  of  pianos  and  violins  would  be 
pious  economy. 

The  larks  come  in  large  flocks  from  the  hills 
and  mountains  in  the  fall,  and  are  slaughtered 
as  ruthlessly  as  the  robins.  Fortunately,  most 
of  our  song  birds  keep  back  in  leafy  hidings, 
and  are  comparatively  inaccessible. 

The  water  ouzel,  in  his  rocky  home  amid 
foaming  waters,  seldom  sees  a  gun,  and  of  all 
the  singers  I  like  him  the  best.  He  is  a  plainly 
dressed  little  bird,  about  the  size  of  a  robin,  with 
short,  crisp,  but  rather  broad  wings,  and  a  tail 
of  moderate  length,  slanted  up,  giving  him,  with 
his  nodding,  bobbing  manners,  a  wrennish  look. 


AMONG  THE  BIRDS   OF  THE  YOSEMITE    239 

He  is  usually  seen  fluttering  about  in  the  spray 
of  falls  and  the  rapid  cascading  portions  of  the 
main  branches  of  the  rivers.  These  are  his  fa- 
vorite haunts ;  but  he  is  often  seen  also  on  com- 
paratively level  reaches  and  occasionally  on  the 
shores  of  mountain  lakes,  especially  at  the  be- 
ginning of  winter,  when  heavy  snowfalls  have 
blurred  the  streams  with  sludge.  Though  not  a 
water-bird  in  structure,  he  gets  his  living  in  the 
water,  and  is  never  seen  away  from  the  immedi- 
ate margin  of  streams.  He  dives  fearlessly  into 
rough,  boiling  eddies  and  rapids  to  feed  at  the 
bottom,  flying  under  water  seemingly  as  easily 
as  in  the  air.  Sometimes  he  wades  in  shallow 
places,  thrusting  his  head  under  from  time  to 
time  in  a  nodding,  frisky  way  that  is  sure  to 
attract  attention.  His  flight  is  a  solid  whir  of 
wing-beats  like  that  of  a  partridge,  and  in  going 
from  place  to  place  along  his  favorite  string  of 
rapids  he  follows  the  windings  of  the  stream, 
and  usually  alights  on  some  rock  or  snag  on  the 
bank  or  out  in  the  current,  or  rarely  on  the  dry 
limb  of  an  overhanging  tree,  perching  like  a  tree 
bird  when  it  suits  his  convenience.  He  has  the 
oddest,  neatest  manners  imaginable,  and  all  his 
gestures  as  he  flits  about  in  the  wild,  dashing 
waters  bespeak  the  utmost  cheerfulness  and  con- 
fidence. He  sings  both  winter  and  summer,  in 
all  sorts  of  weather,  —  a  sweet,  fluty  melody, 
rather  low,  and  much  less  keen  and  accentuated 


240  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

than  from  the  brisk  vigor  of  his  movements  one 
would  be  led  to  expect. 

How  romantic  and  beautiful  is  the  life  of  this 
brave  little  singer  on  the  wild  mountain  streams, 
building  his  round  bossy  nest  of  moss  by  the 
side  of  a  rapid  or  fall,  where  it  is  sprinkled  and 
kept  fresh  and  green  by  the  spray  !  No  wonder 
he  sings  well,  since  all  the  air  about  him  is  music ; 
every  breath  he  draws  is  part  of  a  song,  and  he 
gets  his  first  music  lessons  before  he  is  born; 
for  the  eggs  vibrate  in  time  with  the  tones  of  the 
waterfalls.  Bird  and  stream  are  inseparable, 
songful  and  wild,  gentle  and  strong,  —  the  bird 
ever  in  danger  in  the  midst  of  the  stream's  mad 
whirlpools,  yet  seemingly  immortal.  And  so  I 
might  go  on,  writing  words,  words,  words;  but 
to  what  purpose?  Go  see  him  and  love  him, 
and  through  him  as  through  a  window  look  into 
Nature's  warm  heart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    FOUNTAINS   AND    STREAMS    OF     THE   YOSEM- 
ITE    NATIONAL     PARK 

"  Gome  let 's  to  the  fields,  the  meads,  and  the  mountains, 
The  forests  invite  us,  the  streams  and  the  fountains." 

Carlyle,  Translations,  vol.  iii. 

THE  joyful,  songful  streams  of  the  Sierra  are 
among  the  most  famous  and  interesting  in  the 
world,  and  draw  the  admiring  traveler  on  and  on 
through  their  wonderful  canons,  year  after  year, 
unwearied.  After  long  wanderings  with  them, 
tracing  them  to  their  fountains,  learning  their 
history  and  the  forms  they  take  in  their  wild 
works  and  ways  throughout  the  different  seasons 
of  the  year,  we  may  then  view  them  together  in 
one  magnificent  show,  outspread  over  all  the  range 
like  embroidery,  their  silvery  branches  interlacing 
on  a  thousand  moiintains,  singing  their  way  home 
to  the  sea :  the  small  rills,  with  hard  roads  to 
travel,  dropping  from  ledge  to  ledge,  pool  to 
pool,  like  chains  of  sweet-toned  bells,  slipping 
gently  over  beds  of  pebbles  and  sand,  resting  in 
lakes,  shining,  spangling,  shimmering,  lapping  the 
shores  with  whispering  ripples,  and  shaking  over- 


242  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

leaning  bushes  and  grass;  the  larger  streams 
and  rivers  in  the  canons  displaying  noble  purity 
and  beauty  with  ungovernable  energy,  rushing 
down  smooth  inclines  in  wide  foamy  sheets  fold 
over  fold,  springing  up  here  and  there  in  mag- 
nificent whirls,  scattering  crisp  clashing  spray  for 
the  sunbeams  to  iris,  bursting  with  hoarse  rever- 
berating roar  through  rugged  gorges  and  boulder 
dams,  booming  in  falls,  gliding,  glancing  with 
cool  soothing  murmuring,  through  long  forested 
reaches  richly  embowered,  —  filling  the  grand 
canons  with  glorious  song,  and  giving  life  to  all 
the  landscape. 

The  present  rivers  of  the  Sierra  are  still  young, 
and  have  made  but  little  mark  as  yet  on  the 
grand  canons  prepared  for  them  by  the  ancient 
glaciers.  Only  a  very  short  geological  time  ago 
they  all  lay  buried  beneath  the  glaciers  they 
drained,  singing  in  low  smothered  or  silvery 
ringing  tones  in  crystal  channels,  while  the  sum- 
mer weather  melted  the  ice  and  snow  of  the  sur- 
face or  gave  showers.  At  first  only  in  warm 
weather  was  any  part  of  these  buried  rivers  dis- 
played in  the  light  of  day ;  for  as  soon  as  frost 
prevailed  the  surface  rills  vanished,  though  the 
streams  beneath  the  ice  and  in  the  body  of  it 
flowed  on  all  the  year. 

When,  toward  the  close  of  the  glacial  period, 
the  ice  mantle  began  to  shrink  and  recede  from 
the  lowlands,  the  lower  portions  of  the  rivers  were 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  243 

developed,  issuing  from  cavelike  openings  on  the 
melting  margin  and  growing  longer  as  the  ice 
withdrew ;  while  for  many  a  century  the  tributa- 
ries and  upper  portions  of  the  trunks  remained 
covered.  In  the  fullness  of  time  these  also  were 
set  free  in  the  sunshine,  to  take  their  places  in 
the  newborn  landscapes ;  each  tributary  with  its 
smaller  branches  being  gradually  developed  like 
the  main  trunks,  as  the  climatic  changes  went  on. 
At  first  all  of  them  were  muddy  with  glacial 
detritus,  and  they  became  clear  only  after  the 
glaciers  they  drained  had  receded  beyond  lake 
basins  in  which  the  sediments  were  dropped. 

This  early  history  is  clearly  explained  by  the 
present  rivers  of  southeastern  Alaska.  Of  those 
draining  glaciers  that  discharge  into  arms  of  the 
sea,  only  the  rills  on  the  surface  of  the  ice,  and 
upboiling,  eddying,  turbid  currents  in  the  tide 
water  in  front  of  the  terminal  ice  wall,  are  visible. 
Where  glaciers,  in  the  first  stage  of  decadence, 
have  receded  from  the  shore,  short  sections  of 
the  trunks  of  the  rivers  that  are  to  take  their 
places  may  be  seen  rushing  out  from  caverns 
and  tunnels  in  the  melting  front,  —  rough,  roar- 
ing, detritus-laden  torrents,  foaming  and  tum- 
bling over  outspread  terminal  moraines  to  the 
sea,  perhaps  without  a  single  bush  or  flower  to 
brighten  their  raw,  shifting  banks.  Again,  in 
some  of  the  warmer  canons  and  valleys  from 
which  the  trunk  glaciers  have  been  melted,  the 


244  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

main  trunks  of  the  rivers  are  well  developed,  and 
their  banks  planted  with  fine  forests,  while  their 
upper  branches,  lying  high  on  the  snowy  moun- 
tains, are  still  buried  beneath  shrinking  residual 
glaciers  ;  illustrating  every  stage  of  development, 
from  icy  darkness  to  light,  and  from  muddiness 
to  crystal  clearness. 

Now  that  the  hard  grinding  sculpture  work  of 
the  glacial  period  is  done,  the  whole  bright  band 
of  Sierra  rivers  run  clear  ah*  the  year,  except  when 
the  snow  is  melting  fast  in  the  warm  spring 
weather,  and  during  extraordinary  winter  floods 
and  the  heavy  thunderstorms  of  summer  called 
cloud-bursts.  Even  then  they  are  not  muddy 
above  the  foothill  mining  region, 'unless  the  mo- 
raines have  been  loosened  and  the  vegetation  de- 
stroyed by  sheep ;  for  the  rocks  of  the  upper 
basins  are  clean,  and  the  most  able  streams  find 
but  little  to  carry  save  the  spoils  of  the  forests, 
—  trees,  branches,  flakes  of  bark,  cones,  leaves, 
pollen  dust,  etc.,  —  with  scales  of  mica,  sand 
grains,  and  boulders,  which  are  rolled  along  the 
bottom  of  the  steep  parts  of  the  main  channels. 
Short  sections  of  a  few  of  the  highest  tributaries 
heading  in  glaciers  are  of  course  turbid  with 
finely  ground  rock  mud,  but  this  is  dropped  in 
the  first  lakes  they  enter. 

On  the  northern  "part  of  the  range,  mantled 
with  porous  fissured  volcanic  rocks,  the  fountain 
waters  sink  and  flow  below  the  surface  for  con- 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  245 

siderable  distances,  groping  their  way  in  the 
dark  like  the  draining  streams  of  glaciers,  and 
at  last  bursting  forth  in  big  generous  springs, 
filtered  and  cool  and  exquisitely  clear.  Some  of 
the  largest  look  like  lakes,  their  waters  welling 
straight  up  from  the  bottom  of  deep  rock  basins 
in  quiet  massive  volume  giving  rise  to  young 
rivers.  Others  issue  from  horizontal  clefts  in 
sheer  bluffs,  with  loud  tumultuous  roaring  that 
may  be  heard  half  a  mile  or  more.  Magnificent 
examples  of  these  great  northern  spring  foun- 
tains, twenty  or  thirty  feet  deep  and  ten  to 
nearly  a  hundred  yards  wide,  abound  on  the 
main  branches  of  the  Feather,  Pitt,  McCloud, 
and  Fall  rivers. 

The  springs  of  the  Yosemite  Park,  and  the 
high  Sierra  in  general,  though  many  times  more 
numerous,  are  comparatively  small,  oozing  from 
moraines  and  snowbanks  in  thin,  flat  irregular 
currents  which  remain  on  the  surface  or  near  it, 
the  rocks  of  the  south  half  of  the  range  being 
mostly  flawless  impervious  granite ;  and  since 
granite  is  but  slightly  soluble,  the  streams  are 
particularly  pure.  Nevertheless,  though  they 
are  all  clear,  and  in  the  upper  and  main  central 
forest  regions  delightfully  lively  and  cool,  they 
vary  somewhat  in  color  and  taste  as  well  as  tem- 
perature, on  account  of  differences,  however 
slight,  in  exposure,  and  in  the  rocks  and  vegeta- 
tion with  which  they  come  in  contact.  Some 


246  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

are  more  exposed  than  others  to  winds  and  sun- 
shine in  their  falls  and  thin  plumelike  cascades ; 
the  amount  of  dashing,  mixing,  and  airing  the 
waters  of  each  receive  varies  considerably ;  and 
there  is  always  more  or  less  variety  in  the  kind 
and  quantity  of  the  vegetation  they  flow  through, 
and  in  the  time  they  lie  in  shady  or  sunny  lakes 
and  bogs. 

The  water  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the  north 
fork  of  Owens  River,  near  the  southeastern  boun- 
dary of  the  Park,  at  an  elevation  of  ninety-five 
hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  is  the  best  I  ever 
found.  It  is  not  only  delightfully  cool  and 
bright,  but  brisk,  sparkling,  exhilarating,  and  so 
positively  delicious  to  the  taste  that  a  party  of 
friends  I  led  to  it  twenty-five  years  ago  still 
praise  it,  and  refer  to  it  as  "  that  wonderful 
champagne  water  ;  "  though,  comparatively,  the 
finest  wine  is  a  coarse  and  vulgar  drink.  The 
party  camped  about  a  week  in  a  pine  grove  on 
the  edge  of  a  little  round  sedgy  meadow  through 
which  the  stream  ran  bank  full,  and  drank  its 
icy  water  on  frosty  mornings,  before  breakfast, 
and  at  night  about  as  eagerly  as  in  the  heat  of 
the  day ;  lying  down  and  taking  massy  draughts 
direct  from  the  brimming  flood,  lest  the  touch 
of  a  cup  might  disturb  its  celestial  flavor.  On 
one  of  my  excursions  I  took  pains  to  trace  this 
stream  to  its  head  springs.  It  is  mostly  derived 
from  snow  that  lies  in  heavy  drifts  and  avalanche 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  247 

heaps  on  or  near  the  axis  of  the  range.  It  flows 
first  in  flat  sheets  over  coarse  sand  or  shingle 
derived  from  a  granite  ridge  and  the  metamor- 
phic  slates  of  Red  Mountain.  Then,  gathering 
its  many  small  branches,  it  runs  through  beds  of 
moraine  material,  and  a  series  of  lakelets  and 
meadows  and  frosty  juicy  bogs  bordered  with 
heathworts  and  linked  together  by  short  bould- 
ery  reaches.  Below  these,  growing  strong  with 
tribute  drawn  from  many  a  snowy  fountain  on 
either  side,  the  glad  stream  goes  dashing  and 
swirling  through  clumps  of  the  white-barked 
pine,  and  tangled  willow  and  alder  thickets  en- 
riched by  the  fragrant  herbaceous  vegetation 
usually  found  about  them.  And  just  above  the 
level  camp  meadow  it  is  chafed  and  churned  and 
beaten  white  over  and  over  again  in  crossing  a 
talus  of  big  earthquake  boulders,  giving  it  a 
very  thorough  airing.  But  to  what  the  peculiar 
indefinable  excellence  of  this  water  is  due  I  don't 
know ;  for  other  streams  in  adjacent  canons  are 
aired  in  about  the  same  way,  and  draw  traces  of 
minerals  and  plant  essences  from  similar  sources. 
The  best  mineral  water  yet  discovered  in  the 
Park  flows  from  the  Tuolumne  soda  springs, 
on  the  north  side  of  the  Big  Meadow.  Moun- 
taineers like  it  and  ascribe  every  healing  virtue 
to  it,  but  in  no  way  can  any  of  these  waters  be 
compared  with  the  Owens  River  champagne. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  waters  of  some 


248  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  the  Sierra  lakes  and  streams  are  invisible, 
or  nearly  so,  under  certain  weather  conditions. 
This  is  noticed  by  mountaineers,  hunters,  and 
prospectors,  wide-awake,  sharp-eyed  observers, 
little  likely  to  be  fooled  by  fine  whims.  One  of 
these  mountain  men,  whom  I  had  nursed  while  a 
broken  leg  was  mending,  always  gratefully  re- 
ported the  wonders  he  found.  Once,  returning 
from  a  trip  on  the  head  waters  of  the  Tuolumne, 
he  came  running  eagerly,  crying :  "  Muir,  I  Ve 
found  the  queerest  lake  in  the  mountains  !  It 's 
high  up  where  nothing  grows ;  and  when  it  isn't 
shiny  you  can't  see  it,  and  you  walk  right  into  it 
as  if  there  was  nothing  there.  The  first  you 
know  of  that  lake  you  are  in  it,  and  get  tripped 
up  by  the  water,  and  hear  the  splash."  The 
waters  of  Illilouette  Creek  are  nearly  invisible  in 
the  autumn ;  so  that,  in  following  the  channel, 
jumping  from  boulder  to  boulder  after  a  shower, 
you  will  frequently  drag  your  feet  in  the  appar- 
ently surfaceless  pools. 

Excepting  a  few  low,  warm  slopes,  fountain 
snow  usually  covers  all  the  Yosemite  Park  from 
November  or  December  to  May,  most  of  it  until 
June  or  July,  while  on  the  coolest  parts  of  the 
north  slopes  of  the  mountains,  at  a  height  of 
eleven  to  thirteen  thousand  feet,  it  is  perpetual. 
It  seldom  lies  at  a  greater  depth  than  two  or 
three  feet  on  the  lower  margin,  ten  feet  over  the 
middle  forested  region,  or  fifteen  to  twenty  feet 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  249 

in  the  shadowy  canons  and  cirques  among  the 
peaks  of  the  Summit,  except  where  it  is  drifted, 
or  piled  in  avalanche  heaps  at  the  foot  of  long 
converging  slopes  to  form  perennial  fountains. 

The  first  crop  of  snow  crystals  that  whitens 
the  mountains  and  refreshes  the  streams  usually 
falls  in  September  or  October,  in  the  midst  of 
charming  Indian  summer  weather,  often  while 
the  goldenrods  and  gentians  are  in  their  prime ; 
but  these  Indian  summer  snows,  like  some  of  the 
late  ones  that  bury  the  June  gardens,  vanish  in 
a  day  or  two,  and  garden  work  goes  on  with  ac- 
celerated speed.  The  grand  winter  storms  that 
load  the  mountains  with  enduring  fountain  snow 
seldom  set  in  before  the  end  of  November.  The 
fertile  clouds,  descending,  glide  about  and  hover 
in  brooding  silence,  as  if  thoughtfully  examining 
the  forests  and  streams  with  reference  to  the 
work  before  them;  then  small  flakes  or  single 
crystals  appear,  glinting  and  swirling  in  zigzags 
and  spirals ;  and  soon  the  thronging  feathery 
masses  fill  the  sky  and  make  darkness  like 
night,  hurrying  wandering  mountaineers  to  their 
winter  quarters.  The  first  fall  is  usually  about 
two  to  four  feet  deep.  Then,  with  intervals  of 
bright  weather,  not  very  cold,  storm  succeeds 
storm,  heaping  snow  on  snow,  until  from  thirty 
to  fifty  or  sixty  feet  has  faUen  ;  but  on  account 
of  heavy  settling  and  compacting,  and  the  waste 
from  evaporation  and  melting,  the  depth  in  the 


250  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

middle  region,  as  stated  above,  rarely  exceeds 
ten  feet.  Evaporation  never  wholly  ceases,  even 
in  the  coldest  weather,  and  the  sunshine  between 
storms  melts  the  surface  more  or  less.  Waste 
from  melting  also  goes  on  at  the  bottom  from 
summer  heat  stored  in  the  rocks,  as  is  shown  by 
the  rise  of  the  streams  after  the  first  general 
storm,  and  their  steady  sustained  flow  all  winter. 
In  the  deep  sugar-pine  and  silver-fir  woods,  up 
to  a  height  of  eight  thousand  feet,  most  of  the 
snow  lies  where  it  falls,  in  one  smooth  universal 
fountain,  until  set  free  in  the  streams.  But  in  the 
lighter  forests  of  the  two-leaved  pine,  and  on  the 
bleak  slopes  above  the  timber  line,  there  is  much 
wild  drifting  during  storms  accompanied  by  high 
winds,  and  for  a  day  or  two  after  they  have 
fallen,  when  the  temperature  is  low,  and  the  snow 
dry  and  dusty.  Then  the  trees,  bending  in  the 
darkening  blast,  roar  like  feeding  lions ;  the 
frozen  lakes  are  buried ;  so  also  are  the  streams, 
which  now  flow  in  dark  tunnels,  as  if  another 
glacial  period  had  come.  On  high  ridges,  where 
the  winds  have  a  free  sweep,  magnificent  over- 
curling  cornices  are  formed,  which,  with  the  ava- 
lanche piles,  last  as  fountains  almost  all  summer ; 
and  when  an  exceptionally  high  wind  is  blowing 
from  the  north,  the  snow,  rolled,  drifted,  and 
ground  to  dust,  is  driven  up  the  converging 
northern  slopes  of  the  peaks  and  sent  flying  for 
miles  in  the  form  of  bright  wavering  banners, 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  251 

displayed  in  wonderful  clearness  and  beauty 
against  the  sky. 

The  greatest  storms,  however,  are  usually  fol- 
lowed by  a  deep,  peculiar  silence,  especially  pro- 
found and  solemn  in  the  forests ;  and  the  noble 
trees  stand  hushed  and  motionless,  as  if  under  a 
spell,  until  the  morning  sunbeams  begin  to  sift 
through  their  laden  spires.  Then  the  snow, 
shifting  and  falling  from  the  top  branches,  strikes 
the  lower  ones  in  succession,  and  dislodges  bossy 
masses  all  the  way  down.  Thus  each  tree  is  en- 
veloped in  a  hollow  conical  avalanche  of  fairy 
fineness,  silvery  white,  irised  on  the  outside ; 
while  the  relieved  branches  spring  up  and  wave 
with  startling  effect  in  the  general  stillness,  as  if 
moving  of  their  own  volition.  These  beautiful 
tree  avalanches,  hundreds  of  which  may  be  seen 
falling  at  once  on  fine  mornings  after  storms, 
pile  their  snow  in  raised  rings  around  correspond- 
ing hollows  beneath  the  trees,  making  the  forest 
mantle  somewhat  irregular,  but  without  greatly 
influencing  its  duration  and  the  flow  of  the 
streams. 

The  large  storm  avalanches  are  most  abundant 
on  the  Summit  peaks  of  the  range.  They  de- 
scend the  broad,  steep  slopes,  as  well  as  narrow 
gorges  and  couloirs,  with  grand  roaring  and 
booming,  and  glide  in  graceful  curves  out  on 
the  glaciers  they  so  bountifully  feed. 

Down  in  the  main  canons  of  the  middle  region 


252  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

broad  masses  are  launched  over  the  brows  of 
cliffs  three  or  four  thousand  feet  high,  which, 
worn  to  dust  by  friction  in  falling  so  far  through 
the  air,  oftentimes  hang  for  a  minute  or  two  in 
front  of  the  tremendous  precipices  like  gauzy 
half-transparent  veils,  gloriously  beautiful  when 
the  sun  is  shining  through  them.  Most  of  the 
canon  avalanches,  however,  flow  in  regular  chan- 
nels, like  the  cascades  of  tributary  streams. 
When  the  snow  first  gives  way  on  the  upper 
slopes  of  their  basins  a  dull  muffled  rush  and 
rumble  is  heard,  which,  increasing  with  heavy 
deliberation,  seems  to  draw  rapidly  nearer  with 
appalling  intensity  of  tone.  Presently  the  wild 
flood  comes  in  sight,  bounding  out  over  bosses 
and  sheer  places,  leaping  from  bench  to  bench, 
spreading  and  narrowing  and  throwing  off  clouds 
of  whirling  diamond  dust  like  a  majestic  foamy 
cataract.  Compared  with  cascades  and  falls, 
avalanches  are  short-lived,  and  the  sharp  clashing 
sounds  so  common  in  dashing  water  are  usually 
wanting ;  but  in  their  deep  thunder  tones  and 
pearly  purple-tinged  whiteness,  and  in  dress, 
gait,  gestures,  and  general  behavior,  they  are 
much  alike. 

Besides  these  common  storm  avalanches  there 
are  two  other  kinds,  the  annual  and  the  century, 
which  still  further  enrich  the  scenery,  though 
their  influence  on  fountains  is  comparatively  small. 
Annual  avalanches  are  composed  of  heavy  com* 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  253 

pacted  snow  which  has  been  subjected  to  frequent 
alternations  of  frost  and  thaw.  They  are  devel- 
oped on  canon  and  mountain  sides,  the  greater 
number  of  them,  at  elevations  of  from  nine  to 
ten  thousand  feet,  where  the  slopes  are  so  in- 
clined that  the  dry  snows  of  winter  accumulate 
and  hold  fast  until  the  spring  thaws  sap  their 
foundations  and  make  them  slippery.  Then  away 
in  grand  style  go  the  ponderous  icy  masses, 
adorned  with  crystalline  spray  without  any 
cloudy  snow  dust ;  some  of  the  largest  descend- 
ing more  than  a  mile  with  even,  sustained  energy 
and  directness  like  thunderbolts.  The  grand  cen- 
tury avalanches,  that  mow  wide  swaths  through 
the  upper  forests,  occur  on  shady  mountain  sides 
about  ten  to  twelve  thousand  feet  high,  where, 
under  ordinary  conditions,  the  snow  accumulated 
from  winter  to  winter  lies  at  rest  for  many  years, 
allowing  trees  fifty  to  a  hundred  feet  high  to 
grow  undisturbed  on  the  slopes  below  them.  On 
their  way  through  the  forests  they  usually  make 
a  clean  sweep,  stripping  off  the  soil  as  well  as  the 
trees,  clearing  paths  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
wide  from  the  timber  line  to  the  glacier  meadows, 
and  piling  the  uprooted  trees,  head  downward, 
in  windrows  along  the  sides  like  lateral  moraines. 
Scars  and  broken  branches  on  the  standing  trees 
bordering  the  gaps  record  the  side  depth  of  the 
overwhelming  flood ;  and  when  we  come  to  count 
the  annual  wood  rings  of  the  uprooted  trees,  we 


254  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

learn  that  some  of  these  colossal  avalanches  occur 
only  once  in  about  a  century,  or  even  at  still 
wider  intervals. 

Few  mountaineers  go  far  enough,  during  the 
snowy  months,  to  see  many  avalanches,  and 
fewer  still  know  the  thrilling  exhilaration  of  rid- 
ing on  them.  In  all  my  wild  mountaineering  I 
have  enjoyed  only  one  avalanche  ride ;  and  the 
start  was  so  sudden,  and  the  end  came  so  soon, 
I  thought  but  little  of  the  danger  that  goes  with 
this  sort  of  travel,  though  one  thinks  fast  at  such 
times.  One  calm,  bright  morning  in  Yosemite, 
after  a  hearty  storm  had  given  three  or  four  feet 
of  fresh  snow  to  the  mountains,  being  eager  to 
see  as  many  avalanches  as  possible,  and  gain 
wide  views  of  the  peaks  and  forests  arrayed  in 
their  new  robes,  before  the  sunshine  had  time  to 
change  or  rearrange  them,  I  set  out  early  to 
climb  by  a  side  canon  to  the  top  of  a  command- 
ing ridge  a  little  over  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  valley.  On  account  of  the  looseness  of  the 
snow  that  blocked  the  canon  I  knew  the  climb 
would  be  trying,  and  estimated  it  might  require 
three  or  four  hours.  But  it  proved  far  more 
difficult  than  I  had  foreseen.  Most  of  the  way  I 
sank  waist-deep,  in  some  places  almost  out  of 
sight ;  and  after  spending  the  day  to  within  half 
an  hour  of  sundown  in  this  loose,  baffling  snow 
work,  I  was  still  several  hundred  feet  below  the 
summit.  Then  my  hopes  were  reduced  to  get- 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  255 

ting  up  in  time  for  the  sunset,  and  a  quick, 
sparkling  home-going  beneath  the  stars.  But  I 
was  not  to  get  top  views  of  any  sort  that  day ; 
for  deep  trampling  near  the  canon  head,  where 
the  snow  was  strained,  started  an  avalanche,  and 
I  was  swished  back  down  to  the  foot  of  the 
canon  as  if  by  enchantment.  The  plodding, 
wallowing  ascent  of  about  a  mile  had  taken  all 
day,  the  undoing  descent  perhaps  a  minute. 
When  the  snow  suddenly  gave  way,  I  instinc- 
tively threw  myself  on  my  back  and  spread  my 
arms,  to  try  to  keep  from  sinking.  Fortunately, 
though  the  grade  of  the  canon  was  steep,  it  was 
not  interrupted  by  step  levels  or  precipices  big 
enough  to  cause  outbounding  or  free  plunging. 
On  no  part  of  the  rush  was  I  buried.  I  was  only 
moderately  imbedded  on  the  surface  or  a  little 
below  it,  and  covered  with  a  hissing  back-stream- 
ing veil  of  dusty  snow  particles;  and  as  the 
whole  mass  beneath  or  about  me  joined  in  the 
flight  I  felt  no  friction,  though  tossed  here  and 
there,  and  lurched  from  side  to  side.  And  when 
the  torrent  swedged  and  came  to  rest,  I  found 
myself  on  the  top  of  the  crumpled  pile,  without 
a  single  bruise  or  scar.  Hawthorne  says  that 

o  •/ 

steam  has  spiritualized  travel,  notwithstanding 
the  smoke,  friction,  smells,  and  clatter  of  boat 
and  rail  riding.  This  flight  in  a  milky  way  of 
snow  flowers  was  the  most  spiritual  of  all  my 
travels  ;  and,  after  many  years,  the  mere  thought 
of  it  is  still  an  exhilaration. 


256  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

In  the  spring,  after  all  the  avalanches  are 
down  and  the  snow  is  melting  fast,  it  is  glorious 
to  hear  the  streams  sing  out  on  the  mountains. 
Every  fountain  swelling,  countless  rills  hurry 
together  to  the  rivers  at  the  call  of  the  sun,  — 
beginning  to  run  and  sing  soon  after  sunrise,  in- 
creasing until  toward  sundown,  then  gradually 
failing  through  the  cold  frosty  hours  of  the 
night.  Thus  the  volume  of  the  upper  rivers, 
even  in  flood  time,  is  nearly  doubled  during  the 
day,  rising  and  falling  as  regularly  as  the  tides 
of  the  sea.  At  the  height  of  flood,  in  the  warm- 
est June  weather,  they  seem  fairly  to  shout  for 
joy,  and  clash  their  upleaping  waters  together 
like  clapping  of  hands ;  racing  down  the  canons 
with  white  manes  flying  in  glorious  exuberance 
of  strength,  compelling  huge  sleeping  boulders 
to  wake  up  and  join  in  the  dance  and  song  to 
swell  their  chorus. 

Then  the  plants  also  are  in  flood ;  the  hidden 
sap  singing  into  leaf  and  flower,  responding  as 
faithfully  to  the  call  of  the  sun  as  the  streams 
from  the  snow,  gathering  along  the  outspread 
roots  like  rills  in  their  channels  on  the  moun- 
tains, rushing  up  the  stems  of  herb  and  tree, 
swirling  in  their  myriad  cells  like  streams  in  pot- 
holes, spreading  along  the  branches  and  break- 
ing into  foamy  bloom,  while  fragrance,  like  a 
finer  music,  rises  and  flows  with  the  winds. 

About  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  spring 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  257 

gladness  of  blood  when  the  red  streams  surge 
and  sing  in  accord  with  the  swelling  plants  and 
rivers,  inclining  animals  and  everybody  to  travel 
in  hurrahing  crowds  like  floods,  while  exhilarat- 
ing melody  in  color  and  fragrance,  form  and 
motion,  flows  to  the  heart  through  all  the  quick- 
ening senses. 

In  early  summer  the  streams  are  in  bright 
prime,  running  crystal  clear,  deep  and  full,  but 
not  overflowing  their  banks,  —  about  as  deep 
through  the  night  as  the  day,  the  variation  so 
marked  in  spring  being  now  too  slight  to  be 
noticed.  Nearly  all  the  weather  is  cloudless  sun- 
shine, and  everything  is  at  its  brightest, — lake, 
river,  garden,  and  forest,  with  all  their  warm, 
throbbing  life.  Most  of  the  plants  are  in  full 
leaf  and  flower ;  the  blessed  ousels  have  built 
their  mossy  huts,  and  are  now  singing  their 
sweetest  songs  on  spray-sprinkled  ledges  beside 
the  waterfalls. 

In  tranquil,  mellow  autumn,  when  the  year's 
work  is  about  done,  when  the  fruits  are  ripe, 
birds  and  seeds  out  of  their  nests,  and  all  the 
landscape  is  glowing  like  a  benevolent  counte- 
nance at  rest,  then  the  streams  are  at  their  lowest 
ebb,  —  their  wild  rejoicing  soothed  to  thought- 
ful calm.  All  the  smaller  tributaries  whose 
branches  do  not  reach  back  to  the  perennial 
fountains  of  the  Summit  peaks  shrink  to  whis- 
pering, tinkling  currents.  The  snow  of  their 


258  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

basins  gone,  they  are  now  fed  only  by  small  mo- 
raine springs,  whose  waters  are  mostly  evapo- 
rated in  passing  over  warm  pavements,  and  in 
feeling  their  way  from  pool  to  pool  through  the 
midst  of  boulders  and  sand.  Even  the  main 
streams  are  so  low  they  may  be  easily  forded, 
and  their  grand  falls  and  cascades,  now  gentle 
and  approachable,  have  waned  to  sheets  and  webs 
of  embroidery,  falling  fold  over  fold  in  new  and 
ever  changing  beauty. 

Two  of  the  most  songful  of  the  rivers,  the 
Tuolumne  and  Merced,  water  nearly  all  the  Park, 
spreading  their  branches  far  and  wide,  like  broad- 
headed  oaks ;  and  the  highest  branches  of  each 
draw  their  sources  from  one  and  the  same  foun- 
tain on  Mount  Lyell,  at  an  elevation  of  about 
thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  The  crest 
of  the  mountain,  against  which  the  head  of  the 
glacier  rests,  is  worn  to  a  thin  blade  full  of  joints, 
through  which  a  part  of  the  glacial  water  flows 
southward,  giving  rise  to  the  highest  trickling 
affluents  of  the  Merced ;  while  the  main  drain- 
age, flowing  northward,  gives  rise  to  those  of  the 
Tuolumne.  After  diverging  for  a  distance  of 
ten  or  twelve  miles,  these  twin  rivers  flow  in  a 
general  westerly  direction,  descending  rapidly 
for  the  first  thirty  miles,  and  rushing  in  glorious 
apron  cascades  and  falls  from  one  Yosemite  valley 
to  another.  Below  the  Yosemites  they  descend 
in  gray  rapids  and  swirling,  swaying  reaches, 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  259 

through  the  chaparral-clad  canons  of  the  foot- 
hills and  across  the  golden  California  plain,  to 
their  confluence  with  the  San  Joaquin,  where, 
after  all  their  long  wanderings,  they  are  only 
about  ten  miles  apart. 

The  main  canons  are  from  fifty  to  seventy 
miles  long,  and  from  two  to  four  thousand  feet 
deep,  carved  in  the  solid  flank  of  the  range. 
Though  rough  in  some  places  and  hard  to  travel, 
they  are  the  most  delightful  of  roads,  leading 
through  the  grandest  scenery,  full  of  life  and 
motion,  and  offering  most  telling  lessons  in  earth 
sculpture.  The  walls,  far  from  being  unbroken, 
featureless  cliffs,  seem  like  ranges  of  separate 
mountains,  so  deep  and  varied  is  their  sculp- 
ture ;  rising  in  lordly  domes,  towers,  round- 
browed  outstanding  headlands,  and  clustering 
spires,  with  dark,  shadowy  side  canons  between. 
But,  however  wonderful  in  height  and  mass  and 
fineness  of  finish,  no  anomalous  curiosities  are 
presented,  no  "freaks  of  nature."  All  stand 
related  in  delicate  rhythm,  a  grand  glacial  rock 
song. 

Among  the  most  interesting  and  influential 
of  the  secondary  features  of  canon  scenery  are 
the  great  avalanche  taluses,  that  lean  against  the 
walls  at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  two.  In  the  mid- 
dle Yosemite  region  they  are  usually  from  three 
to  five  hundred  feet  high,  and  are  made  up  of 
huge,  angular,  well-preserved,  unshifting  boul- 


260  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ders,  overgrown  with  gray  lichens,  trees,  shrubs, 
and  delicate  flowering  plants.  Some  of  the 
largest  of  the  boulders  are  forty  or  fifty  feet 
cube,  weighing  from  five  to  ten  thousand  tons ; 
and  where  the  cleavage  joints  of  the  granite  are 
exceptionally  wide  apart  a  few  blocks  may  be 
found  nearly  a  hundred  feet  in  diameter.  These 
wonderful  boulder  piles  are  distributed  through- 
out all  the  canons  of  the  range,  completely  chok- 
ing them  in  some  of  the  narrower  portions,  and 
no  mountaineer  will  be  likely  to  forget  the  sav- 
age roughness  of  the  roads  they  make.  Even 
the  swift,  overbearing  rivers,  accustomed  to  sweep 
everything  out  of  their  way,  are  in  some  places 
bridled  and  held  in  check  by  them.  Foaming, 
roaring,  in  glorious  majesty  of  flood,  rushing  off 
long  rumbling  trains  of  ponderous  blocks  with- 
out apparent  effort,  they  are  not  able  to  move 
the  largest,  which,  withstanding  all  assaults  for 
centuries,  are  left  at  rest  in  the  channels  like  isl- 
ands, with  gardens  on  their  tops,  fringed  with 
foam  below,  with  flowers  above. 

On  some  points  concerning  the  origin  of  these 
taluses  I  was  long  in  doubt.  Plainly  enough 
they  were  derived  from  the  cliffs  above  them, 
the  size  of  each  talus  being  approximately  mea- 
sured by  a  scar  on  the  wall,  the  rough  angular 
surface  of  which  contrasts  with  the  rounded, 
glaciated,  unfractured  parts.  I  saw  also  that, 
instead  of  being  slowly  accumulated  material, 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  261 

weathered  off,  boulder  by  boulder,  in  the  ordi- 
nary way,  almost  every  talus  had  been  formed 
suddenly,  in  a  single  avalanche,  and  had  not  been 
increased  in  size  during  the  last  three  or  four 
centuries ;  for  trees  three  or  four  hundred  years 
old  were  growing  on  them,  some  standing  at  the 
top  close  to  the  wall,  without  a  bruise  or  broken 
branch,  showing  that  scarcely  a  single  boulder 
had  fallen  among  them  since  they  were  planted. 
Furthermore,  all  the  taluses  throughout  the  range 
seemed,  by  the  trees  and  lichens  growing  on 
them,  to  be  of  the  same  age.  All  the  phenomena 
pointed  straight  to  a  grand  ancient  earthquake. 
But  I  left  the  question  open  for  years,  and  went  on 
from  canon  to  canon,  observing  again  and  again ; 
measuring  the  heights  of  taluses  throughout 
the  range  on  both  flanks,  and  the  variations  in 
the  angles  of  their  surface  slopes ;  studying  the 
way  their  boulders  were  assorted  and  related 
and  brought  to  rest,  and  the  cleavage  joints  of 
the  cliffs  from  whence  they  were  derived,  cautious 
about  making  up  my  mind.  Only  after  I  had 
seen  one  made  did  all  doubt  as  to  their  formation 
vanish. 

In  Yosemite  Valley,  one  morning  about  two 
o'clock,  I  was  aroused  by  an  earthquake ;  and 
though  I  had  never  before  enjoyed  a  storm  of  this 
sort,  the  strange,  wild  thrilling  motion  and  rum- 
bling could  not  be  mistaken,  and  I  ran  out  of  my 
cabin,  near  the  Sentinel  Rock,  both  glad  and 


262  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

frightened,  shouting,  "  A  noble  earthquake  !  " 
feeling  sure  I  was  going  to  learn  something. 
The  shocks  were  so  violent  and  varied,  and  suc- 
ceeded one  another  so  closely,  one  had  to  balance 
in  walking  as  if  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  among  the 
waves,  and  it  seemed  impossible  the  high  cliffs 
should  escape  being  shattered.  In  particular,  I 
feared  that  the  sheer-fronted  Sentinel  Eock, 
which  rises  to  a  height  of  three  thousand  feet, 
would  be  shaken  down,  and  I  took  shelter  back 
of  a  big  pine,  hoping  I  might  be  protected  from 
outbounding  boulders,  should  any  come  so  far. 
I  was  now  convinced  that  an  earthquake  had 
been  the  maker  of  the  taluses,  and  positive 
proof  soon  came.  It  was  a  calm  moonlight  night, 
and  no  sound  was  heard  for  the  first  minute  or 
two  save  a  low  muffled  underground  rumbling 
and  a  slight  rustling  of  the  agitated  trees,  as  if, 
in  wrestling  with  the  mountains,  Nature  were 
holding  her  breath.  Then,  suddenly,  out  of  the 
strange  silence  and  strange  motion  there  came  a 
tremendous  roar.  The  Eagle  Rock,  a  short  dis- 
tance up  the  valley,  had  given  way,  and  I  saw  it 
falling  in  thousands  of  the  great  boulders  I  had 
been  studying  so  long,  pouring  to  the  valley 
floor  in  a  free  curve  luminous  from  friction, 
making  a  terribly  sublime  and  beautiful  spec- 
tacle, —  an  arc  of  fire  fifteen  hundred  feet  span, 
as  true  in  form  and  as  steady  as  a  rainbow,  in  the 
midst  of  the  stupendous  roaring  rock  storm.  The 


FOUNTAINS   AND  STREAMS  263 

sound  was  inconceivably  deep  and  broad  and  ear- 
nest, as  if  the  whole  earth,  like  a  living  creature, 
had  at  last  found  a  voice  and  were  calling  to  her 
sister  planets.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  all  the 
thunder  I  ever  heard  were  condensed  into  one 
roar  it  would  not  equal  this  rock  roar  at  the 
birth  of  a  mountain  talus.  Think,  then,  of  the 
roar  that  arose  to  heaven  when  all  the  thousands 
of  ancient  canon  taluses  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  range  were  simultaneously 
given  birth. 

The  main  storm  was  soon  over,  and,  eager  to 
see  the  new-born  talus,  I  ran  up  the  valley  in  the 
moonlight  and  climbed  it  before  the  huge  blocks, 
after  their  wild  fiery  flight,  had  come  to  complete 
rest.  They  were  slowly  settling  into  their  places, 
chafing,  grating  against  one  another,  groaning, 
and  whispering ;  but  no  motion  was  visible  ex- 
cept in  a  stream  of  small  fragments  pattering 
down  the  face  of  the  cliff  at  the  head  of  the 
talus.  A  cloud  of  dust  particles,  the  smallest  of 
the  boulders,  floated  out  across  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  valley  and  formed  a  ceiling  that  lasted 
until  after  sunrise  ;  and  the  air  was  loaded  with 
the  odor  of  crushed  Douglas  spruces,  from  a 
grove  that  had  been  mowed  down  and  mashed 
like  weeds. 

Sauntering  about  to  see  what  other  changes 
had  been  made,  I  found  the  Indians  in  the  middle 
of  the  valley,  terribly  frightened,  of  course,  fear- 


264  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  the  angry  spirits  of  the  rocks  were  trying  to 
kill  them.  The  few  whites  wintering  in  the  val- 
ley were  assembled  in  front  of  the  old  Hutchings 
Hotel,  comparing  notes  and  meditating  flight  to 
steadier  ground,  seemingly  as  sorely  frightened  as 
the  Indians.  It  is  always  interesting  to  see  people 
in  dead  earnest,  from  whatever  cause,  and  earth- 
quakes make  everybody  earnest.  Shortly  after 
sunrise,  a  low  blunt  muffled  rumbling,  like  distant 
thunder,  was  followed  by  another  series  of 
shocks,  which,  though  not  nearly  so  severe  as 
the  first,  made  the  cliffs  and  domes  tremble  like 
jelly,  and  the  big  pines  and  oaks  thrill  and  swish 
and  wave  their  branches  with  startling  effect. 
Then  the  groups  of  talkers  were  suddenly  hushed, 
and  the  solemnity  on  their  faces  was  sublime. 
One  in  particular  of  these  winter  neighbors,  a 
rather  thoughtful,  speculative  man,  with  whom  I 
had  often  conversed,  was  a  firm  believer  in  the 
cataclysmic  origin  of  the  valley;  and  I  now 
jokingly  remarked  that  his  wild  tumble-do wn- 
and-engulf ment  hypothesis  might  soon  be  proved, 
since  these  underground  rumblings  and  shakings 
might  be  the  forerunners  of  another  Yosemite- 
making  cataclysm,  which  would  perhaps  double 
the  depth  of  the  vaUey  by  swallowing  the  floor, 
leaving  the  ends  of  the  wagon  roads  and  trails 
three  or  four  thousand  feet  in  the  air.  Just  then 
came  the  second  series  of  shocks,  and  it  was  fine 
to  see  how  awfully  silent  and  solemn  he  became. 


FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  265 

His  belief  in  the  existence  of  a  mysterious  abyss, 
into  which  the  suspended  floor  of  the  valley  and 
all  the  domes  and  battlements  of  the  walls  might 
at  any  moment  go  roaring  down,  mightily 
troubled  him.  To  cheer  and  tease  him  into 
another  view  of  the  case,  I  said  :  "  Come,  cheer 
up ;  smile  a  little  and  clap  your  hands,  now  that 
kind  Mother  Earth  is  trotting  us  on  her  knee  to 
amuse  us  and  make  us  good."  But  the  well- 
meant  joke  seemed  irreverent  and  utterly  failed, 
as  if  only  prayerful  terror  could  rightly  belong  to 
the  wild  beauty-making  business.  Even  after  all 
the  heavier  shocks  were  over,  I  could  do  nothing 
to  reassure  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  handed 
me  the  keys  of  his  little  store,  and,  with  a  com- 
panion of  like  mind,  fled  to  the  lowlands.  In 
about  a  month  he  returned  ;  but  a  sharp  shock 
occurred  that  very  day,  which  sent  him  flying 
again. 

The  rocks  trembled  more  or  less  every  day  for 
over  two  months,  and  I  kept  a  bucket  of  water 
on  my  table  to  learn  what  I  could  of  the  move- 
ments. The  blunt  thunder-tones  in  the  depths 
of  the  mountains  were  usually  followed  by  sudden 
jarring,  horizontal  thrusts  from  the  northward, 
often  succeeded  by  twisting,  up  jolting  movements. 
Judging  by  its  effects,  this  Yosemite,  or  Inyo 
earthquake,  as  it  is  sometimes  called,  was  gentle 
as  compared  with  the  one  that  gave  rise  to  the 
grand  talus  system  of  the  range  and  did  so  much 


266  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

for  the  canon  scenery.  Nature,  usually  so  delib- 
erate in  her  operations,  then  created,  as  we  have 
seen,  a  new  set  of  features,  simply  by  giving  the 
mountains  a  shake,  —  changing  not  only  the  high 
peaks  and  cliffs,  but  the  streams.  As  soon  as 
these  rock  avalanches  fell  every  stream  began  to 
sing  new  songs  ;  for  in  many  places  thousands  of 
boulders  were  hurled  into  their  channels,  rough- 
ening and  half  damming  them,  compelling  the 
waters  to  surge  and  roar  in  rapids  where  before 
they  were  gliding  smoothly.  Some  of  the  streams 
were  completely  dammed,  driftwood,  leaves,  etc., 
filling  the  interstices  between  the  boulders,  thus 
giving  rise  to  lakes  and  level  reaches ;  and  these, 
again,  after  being  gradually  filled  in,  to  smooth 
meadows,  through  which  the  streams  now  silently 
meander;  while  at  the  same  time  some  of  the 
taluses  took  the  places  of  old  meadows  and  groves. 
Thus  rough  places  were  made  smooth,  and  smooth 
places  rough.  But  on  the  whole,  by  what  at 
first  sight  seemed  pure  confusion  and  ruin,  the 
landscapes  were  enriched ;  for  gradually  every 
talus,  however  big  the  boulders  composing  it, 
was  covered  with  groves  and  gardens,  and  made 
a  finely  proportioned  and  ornamental  base  for  the 
sheer  cliffs.  In  this  beauty  work,  every  boulder 
is  prepared  and  measured  and  put  in  its  place 
more  thoughtfully  than  are  the  stones  of  temples. 
If  for  a  moment  you  are  inclined  to  regard  these 
taluses  as  mere  draggled,  chaotic  dumps,  climb 


FOUNTAINS   AND  STREAMS  267 

to  the  top  of  one  of  them,  tie  your  mountain 
shoes  firmly  over  the  instep,  and  with  braced 
nerves  run  down  without  any  haggling,  puttering 
hesitation,  boldly  jumping  from  boulder  to  boul- 
der with  even  speed.  You  wiU  then  find  your 
feet  playing  a  tune,  and  quickly  discover  the 
music  and  poetry  of  rock  piles,  —  a  fine  lesson  ; 
and  ah1  nature's  wildness  tells  the  same  story. 
Storms  of  every  sort,  torrents,  earthquakes,  cata- 
clysms, "  convulsions  of  nature,"  etc.,  however 
mysterious  and  lawless  at  first  sight  they  may 
seem,  are  only  harmonious  notes  in  the  song  of 
creation,  varied  expressions  of  God's  love. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  SEQUOIA  AND  GENERAL  GRANT  NATIONAL 
PARKS 

THE  Big  Tree  (Sequoia  gigantea)  is  Nature's 
forest  masterpiece,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  the 
greatest  of  living  things.  It  belongs  to  an 
ancient  stock,  as  its  remains  in  old  rocks  show, 
and  has  a  strange  air  of  other  days  about  it,  a 
thoroughbred  look  inherited  from  the  long  ago 
—  the  auld  lang  syne  of  trees.  Once  the  genus 
was  common,  and  with  many  species  flourished  in 
the  now  desolate  Arctic  regions,  in  the  interior  of 
North  America,  and  in  Europe,  but  in  long,  event- 
ful wanderings  from  climate  to  climate  only  two 
species  have  survived  the  hardships  they  had  to 
encounter,  the  gigantea  and  semper virens,  the 
former  now  restricted  to  the  western  slopes  of 
the  Sierra,  the  other  to  the  Coast  Mountains,  and 
both  to  California,  excepting  a  few  groves  of 
Redwood  which  extend  into  Oregon.  The  Pacific 
Coast  in  general  is  the  paradise  of  conifers. 
Here  nearly  all  of  them  are  giants,  and  display 
a  beauty  and  magnificence  unknown  elsewhere. 
The  climate  is  mild,  the  ground  never  freezes, 


THE  SEQUOIA  269 

and  moisture  and  sunshine  abound  all  the 
year.  Nevertheless  it  is  not  easy  to  account  for 
the  colossal  size  of  the  Sequoias.  The  largest 
are  about  three  hundred  feet  high  and  thirty  feet 
in  diameter.  Who  of  all  the  dwellers  of  the 
plains  and  prairies  and  fertile  home  forests  of 
round-headed  oak  and  maple,  hickory  and  elm, 
ever  dreamed  that  earth  could  bear  such  growths, 
—  trees  that  the  familiar  pines  and  firs  seem  to 
know  nothing  about,  lonely,  silent,  serene,  with 
a  physiognomy  almost  godlike ;  and  so  old,  thou- 
sands of  them  still  living  had  already  counted 
their  years  by  tens  of  centuries  when  Columbus 
set  sail  from  Spain  and  were  in  the  vigor  of  youth 
or  middle  age  when  the  star  led  the  Chaldean 
sages  to  the  infant  Saviour's  cradle  !  As  far  as 
man  is  concerned  they  are  the  same  yesterday, 
to-day,  and  forever,  emblems  of  permanence. 

No  description  can  give  any  adequate  idea  of 
their  singular  majesty,  much  less  of  their  beauty. 
Excepting  the  sugar-pine,  most  of  their  neigh- 
bors with  pointed  tops  seem  to  be  forever  shout- 
ing Excelsior,  while  the  Big  Tree,  though  soaring 
above  them  all,  seems  satisfied,  its  rounded  head, 
poised  lightly  as  a  cloud,  giving  no  impression 
of  trying  to  go  higher.  Only  in  youth  does  it 
show  like  other  conifers  a  heavenward  yearning, 
keenly  aspiring  with  a  long  quick-growing  top. 
Indeed  the  whole  tree  for  the  first  century  or  two, 
or  until  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet 


270  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

high,  is  arrowhead  in  form,  and,  compared  with 
the  solemn"  rigidity  of  age,  is  as  sensitive  to  the 
wind  as  a  squirrel  tail.  The  lower  branches  are 
gradually  dropped  as  it  grows  older,  and  the 
upper  ones  thinned  out  until  comparatively  few 
are  left.  These,  however,  are  developed  to  great 
size,  divide  again  and  again,  and  terminate  in 
bossy  rounded  masses  of  leafy  branchlets,  while 
the  head  becomes  dome-shaped.  Then  poised  in 
fullness  of  strength  and  beauty,  stern  and  solemn 
in  mien,  it  glows  with  eager,  enthusiastic  life, 
quivering  to  the  tip  of  every  leaf  and  branch 
and  far-reaching  root,  calm  as  a  granite  dome, 
the  first  to  feel  the  touch  of  the  rosy  beams  of 
the  morning,  the  last  to  bid  the  sun  good-night. 
Perfect  specimens,  unhurt  by  running  fires  or 
lightning,  are  singularly  regular  and  symmetrical 
in  general  form,  though  not  at  all  conventional, 
showing  infinite  variety  in  sure  unity  and  har- 
mony of  plan.  The  immensely  strong,  stately 
shafts,  with  rich  purplish  brown  bark,  are  free  of 
limbs  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  or  so,  though 
dense  tufts  of  sprays  occur  here  and  there,  pro- 
ducing an  ornamental  effect,  while  long  parallel 
furrows  give  a  fluted  columnar  appearance.  It 
shoots  forth  its  limbs  with  equal  boldness  in  every 
direction,  showing  no  weather  side.  On  the  old 
trees  the  main  branches  are  crooked  and  rugged, 
and  strike  rigidly  outward  mostly  at  right  angles 
from  the  trunk,  but  there  is  always  a  certain 


THE  SEQUOIA  271 

measured  restraint  in  their  reach  which  keeps 
them  within  bounds.  No  other  Sierra  tree  has 
foliage  so  densely  massed  or  outline  so  finely, 
firmly  drawn  and  so  obediently  subordinate  to 
an  ideal  type.  A  particularly  knotty,  angular, 
ungovernable-looking  branch,  five  to  eight  feet  in 
diameter  and  perhaps  a  thousand  years  old,  may 
occasionally  be  seen  pushing  out  from  the  trunk 
as  if  determined  to  break  across  the  bounds  of  the 
regular  curve,  but  like  all  the  others,  as  soon  as  the 
general  outline  is  approached  the  huge  limb  dis- 
solves into  massy  bosses  of  branchlets  and  sprays, 
as  if  the  tree  were  growing  beneath  an  invisible 
bell  glass  against  the  sides  of  which  the  branches 
were  moulded,  while  many  small,  varied  depar- 
tures from  the  ideal  form  give  the  impression  of 
freedom  to  grow  as  they  like. 

Except  in  picturesque  old  age,  after  being 
struck  by  lightning  and  broken  by  a  thousand 
snowstorms,  this  regularity  of  form  is  one  of  the 
Big  Tree's  most  distinguishing  characteristics. 
Another  is  the  simple  sculptural  beauty  of  the 
trunk  and  its  great  thickness  as  compared  with  its 
height  and  the  width  of  the  branches,  many  of 
them  being  from  eight  to  ten  feet  in  diameter  at  a 
height  of  two  hundred  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
seeming  more  like  finely  modeled  and  sculptured 
architectural  columns  than  the  stems  of  trees, 
while  the  great  strong  limbs  are  like  rafters  sup- 
porting the  magnificent  dome  head. 


272  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  root  system  corresponds  in  magnitude 
with  the  other  dimensions  of  the  tree,  forming 
a  flat  far-reaching  spongy  network  two  hundred 
feet  or  more  in  width  without  any  taproot,  and 
the  instep  is  so  grand  and  fine,  so  suggestive  of 
endless  strength,  it  is  long  ere  the  eye  is  released 
to  look  above  it.  The  natural  swell  of  the  roots, 
though  at  first  sight  excessive,  gives  rise  to  but- 
tresses no  greater  than  are  required  for  beauty 
as  well  as  strength,  as  at  once  appears  when  you 
stand  back  far  enough  to  see  the  whole  tree  in 
its  true  proportions.  The  fineness  of  the  taper 
of  the  trunk  is  shown  by  its  thickness  at  great 
heights  —  a  diameter  of  ten  feet  at  a  height  of 
two  hundred  being,  as  we  have  seen,  not  un- 
common. Indeed  the  boles  of  but  few  trees  hold 
their  thickness  as  well  as  Sequoia.  Resolute, 
consummate,  determined  in  form,  always  beheld 
with  wondering  admiration,  the  Big  Tree  always 
seems  unfamiliar,  standing  alone,  unrelated,  with 
peculiar  physiognomy,  awfully  solemn  and  ear- 
nest. Nevertheless,  there  is  nothing  alien  in  its 
looks.  The  Madrona,  clad  in  thin,  smooth,  red 
and  yellow  bark  and  big  glossy  leaves,  seems,  in 
the  dark  coniferous  forests  of  Washington  and 
Vancouver  Island,  like  some  lost  wanderer  from 
the  magnolia  groves  of  the  South,  while  the 
Sequoia,  with  all  its  strangeness,  seems  more  at 
home  than  any  of  its  neighbors,  holding  the 
best  right  to  the  ground  as  the  oldest,  strong- 


THE  SEQUOIA  273 

est  inhabitant.  One  soon  becomes  acquainted 
with  new  species  of  pine  and  fir  and  spruce  as 
with  friendly  people,  shaking  their  outstretched 
branches  like  shaking  hands,  and  fondling  their 
beautiful  little  ones ;  while  the  venerable  abori- 
ginal Sequoia,  ancient  of  other  days,  keeps  you 
at  a  distance,  taking  no  notice  of  you,  speaking 
only  to  the  winds,  thinking  only  of  the  sky, 
looking  as  strange  in  aspect  and  behavior  among 
the  neighboring  trees  as  would  the  mastodon  or 
hairy  elephant  among  the  homely  bears  and  deer. 
Only  the  Sierra  Juniper  is  at  all  like  it,  stand- 
ing rigid  and  unconquerable  on  glacial  pave- 
ments for  thousands  of  years,  grim,  rusty,  silent, 
uncommunicative,  with  an  air  of  antiquity  about 
as  pronounced  as  that  so  characteristic  of  Sequoia. 
The  bark  of  full  grown  trees  is  from  one  to 
two  feet  thick,  rich  cinnamon  brown,  purplish  on 
young  trees  and  shady  parts  of  the  old,  forming 
magnificent  masses  of  color  with  the  underbrush 
and  beds  of  flowers.  Toward  the  end  of  winter 
the  trees  themselves  bloom  while  the  snow  is 
still  eight  or  ten  feet  deep.  The  pistillate 
flowers  are  about  three  eighths  of  an  inch  long, 
pale  green,  and  grow  in  countless  thousands 
on  the  ends  of  the  sprays.  The  staminate  are 
still  more  abundant,  pale  yellow,  a  fourth  of  an 
inch  long ;  and  when  the  golden  pollen  is  ripe 
they  color  the  whole  tree  and  dust  the  air  and 
the  ground  far  and  near. 


274  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  cones  are  bright  grass-green  in  color, 
about  two  and  a  half  inches  long,  one  and  a  half 
wide,  and  are  made  up  of  thirty  or  forty  strong, 
closely  packed,  rhomboidal  scales  with  four  to 
eight  seeds  at  the  base  of  each.  The  seeds  are 
extremely  small  and  light,  being  only  from  an 
eighth  to  a  fourth  of  an  inch  long  and  wide,  in- 
cluding a  filmy  surrounding  wing,  which  causes 
them  to  glint  and  waver  in  falling  and  enables 
the  wind  to  carry  them  considerable  distances 
from  the  tree. 

The  faint  lisp  of  snowflakes  as  they  alight  is 
one  of  the  smallest  sounds  mortal  can  hear.  The 
sound  of  falling  Sequoia  seeds,  even  when  they 
happen  to  strike  on  flat  leaves  or  flakes  of  bark, 
is  about  as  faint.  Very  different  is  the  bumping 
and  thudding  of  the  f  ailing  cones.  Most  of  them 
are  cut  off  by  the  Douglas  squirrel  and  stored 
for  the  sake  of  the  seeds,  small  as  they  are.  In 
the  calm  Indian  summer  these  busy  harvesters 
with  ivory  sickles  go  to  work  early  in  the  morning, 
as  soon  as  breakfast  is  over,  and  nearly  all  day 
the  ripe  cones  fall  in  a  steady  pattering,  bumping 
shower.  Unless  harvested  in  this  way  they  dis- 
charge their  seeds  and  remain  on  the  trees  for 
many  years.  In  fruitful  seasons  the  trees  are 
fairly  laden.  On  two  small  specimen  branches 
one  and  a  half  and  two  inches  in  diameter  I 
counted  four  hundred  and  eighty  cones.  No 
other  California  conifer  produces  nearly  so  many 


THE  SEQUOIA  275 

seeds,  excepting  perhaps  its  relative,  the  Red- 
wood of  the  Coast  Mountains.  Millions  are 
ripened  annually  by  a  single  tree,  and  the  product 
of  one  of  the  main  groves  in  a  fruitful  year  would 
suffice  to  plant  all  the  mountain  ranges  of  the 
world. 

The  dense  tufted  sprays  make  snug  nesting 
places  for  birds,  and  in  some  of  the  loftiest,  leaf- 
iest towers  of  verdure  thousands  of  generations 
have  been  reared,  the  great  solemn  trees  shedding 
off  flocks  of  merry  singers  every  year  from  nests, 
like  the  flocks  of  winged  seeds  from  the  cones. 

The  Big  Tree  keeps  its  youth  far  longer  than 
any  of  its  neighbors.  Most  silver  firs  are  old  in 
their  second  or  third  century,  pines  in  their  fourth 
or  fifth,  while  the  Big  Tree  growing  beside  them 
is  still  in  the  bloom  of  its  youth,  juvenile  in  every 
feature  at  the  age  of  old  pines,  and  cannot  be 
said  to  attain  anything  like  prime  size  and  beauty 
before  its  fifteen  hundredth  year,  or  under  favor- 
able circumstances  become  old  before  its  three 
thousandth.  Many,  no  doubt,  are  much  older 
than  this.  On  one  of  the  Kings  River  giants, 
thirty-five  feet  and  eight  inches  in  diameter  ex- 
clusive of  bark,  I  counted  upwards  of  four  thou- 
sand annual  wood-rings,  in  which  there  was  no 
trace  of  decay  after  ah1  these  centuries  of  moun- 
tain weather.  There  is  no  absolute  limit  to  the 
existence  of  any  tree.  Their  death  is  due  to  ac- 
cidents, not,  as  of  animals,  to  the  wearing  out  of 


276  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

organs.  Only  the  leaves  die  of  old  age,  their 
fall  is  foretold  in  their  structure  ;  but  the  leaves 
are  renewed  every  year  and  so  also  are  the  other 
essential  organs  —  wood,  roots,  bark,  buds. 
Most  of  the  Sierra  trees  die  of  disease.  Thus 
the  magnificent  silver  firs  are  devoured  by  fungi, 
and  comparatively  few  of  them  live  to  see  their 
three  hundredth  birth  year.  But  nothing  hurts 
the  Big  Tree.  I  never  saw  one  that  was  sick  or 
showed  the  slightest  sign  of  decay.  It  lives  on 
through  indefinite  thousands  of  years  until 
burned,  blown  down,  undermined,  or  shattered 
by  some  tremendous  lightning  stroke.  No  ordi- 
nary bolt  ever  seriously  hurts  Sequoia.  In  all  my 
walks  I  have  seen  only  one  that  was  thus  killed  out- 
right. Lightning,  though  rare  in  the  California 
lowlands,  is  common  on  the  Sierra.  Almost  every 
day  in  June  and  July  small  thunderstorms  re- 
fresh the  main  forest  belt.  Clouds  like  snowy 
mountains  of  marvelous  beauty  grow  rapidly  in 
the  calm  sky  about  midday  and  cast  cooling 
shadows  and  showers  that  seldom  last  more  than 
an  hour.  Nevertheless  these  brief,  kind  storms 
wound  or  kill  a  good  many  trees.  I  have  seen 
silver  firs  two  hundred  feet  high  split  into  long 
peeled  rails  and  slivers  down  to  the  roots,  leav- 
ing not  even  a  stump,  the  rails  radiating  like 
the  spokes  of  a  wheel  from  a  hole  in  the  ground 
where  the  tree  stood.  But  the  Sequoia,  instead 
of  being  split  and  slivered,  usually  has  forty  or 


THE  SEQUOIA  277 

fifty  feet  of  its  brash  knotty  top  smashed  off  in 
short  chunks  about  the  size  of  cord-wood,  the 
beautiful  rosy  red  ruins  covering  the  ground  in 
a  circle  a  hundred  feet  wide  or  more.  I  never 
saw  any  that  had  been  cut  down  to  the  ground 
or  even  to  below  the  branches  except  one  in  the 
Stanislaus  Grove,  about  twelve  feet  in  diameter, 
the  greater  part  of  which  was  smashed  to  frag- 
ments, leaving  only  a  leafless  stump  about  sev- 
enty-five feet  high.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  all 
the  very  old  Sequoias  have  lost  their  heads  by 
lightning.  "  All  things  come  to  him  who  waits." 
But  of  ah1  living  things  Sequoia  is  perhaps  the 
only  one  able  to  wait  long  enough  to  make  sure 
of  being  struck  by  lightning.  Thousands  of 
years  it  stands  ready  and  waiting,  offering  its 
head  to  every  passing  cloud  as  if  inviting  its  fate, 
praying  for  heaven's  fire  as  a  blessing ;  and  when 
at  last  the  old  head  is  off,  another  of  the  same 
shape  immediately  begins  to  grow  on.  Every 
bud  and  branch  seems  excited,  like  bees  that  have 
lost  their  queen,  and  tries  hard  to  repair  the  dam- 
age. Branches  that  for  many  centuries  have 
been  growing  out  horizontally  at  once  turn  up- 
ward and  all  their  branchlets  arrange  themselves 
with  reference  to  a  new  top  of  the  same  peculiar 
curve  as  the  old  one.  Even  the  small  subordi- 
nate branches  halfway  down  the  trunk  do  their 
best  to  push  up  to  the  top  and  help  in  this  curi- 
ous head-making. 


278  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  great  age  of  these  noble  trees  is  even  more 
wonderful  than  their  huge  size,  standing  bravely 
up,  millennium  in,  millennium  out,  to  all  that 
fortune  may  bring  them,  triumphant  over  tem- 
pest and  fire  and  time,  fruitful  and  beautiful, 
giving  food  and  shelter  to  multitudes  of  small 
fleeting  creatures  dependent  on  their  bounty. 
Other  trees  may  claim  to  be  about  as  large  or  as 
old  :  Australian  Gums,  Senegal  Baobabs,  Mexican 
Taxodiums,  English  Yews,  and  venerable  Lebanon 
Cedars,  trees  of  renown,  some  of  which  are  from 
ten  to  thirty  feet  in  diameter.  We  read  of  oaks 
that  are  supposed  to  have  existed  ever  since  the 
creation,  but  strange  to  say  I  can  find  no  definite 
accounts  of  the  age  of  any  of  these  trees,  but 
only  estimates  based  on  tradition  and  assumed 
average  rates  of  growth.  No  other  known  tree 
approaches  the  Sequoia  in  grandeur,  height  and 
thickness  being  considered,  and  none  as  far  as  I 
know  has  looked  down  on  so  many  centuries  or 
opens  such  impressive  and  suggestive  views  into 
history.  The  majestic  monument  of  the  Kings 
River  Forest  is,  as  we  have  seen,  fully  four  thou- 
sand years  old,  and  measuring  the  rings  of  annual 
growth  we  find  it  was  no  less  than  twenty-seven 
feet  in  diameter  at  the  beginning  of  the  Christian 
era,  while  many  observations  lead  me  to  expect 
the  discovery  of  others  ten  or  twenty  centuries 
older.  As  to  those  of  moderate  age,  there  are 
thousands,  mere  youths  as  yet,  that  — 


THE  SEQUOIA  279 

the  light  that  shone 
On  Mahomet's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 
And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present, 

.* .  .  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 
And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches, 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 
The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches." 

Great  trees  and  groves  used  to  be  venerated  as 
sacred  monuments  and  halls  of  council  and  wor- 
ship. But  soon  after  the  discovery  of  the  Cala- 
veras  Grove  one  of  the  grandest  trees  was  cut 
down  for  the  sake  of  a  stump  !  The  laborious 
vandals  had  seen  "  the  biggest  tree  in  the  world," 
then,  forsooth,  they  must  try  to  see  the  biggest 
stump  and  dance  on  it. 

The  growth  in  height  for  the  first  two  centu- 
ries is  usually  at  the  rate  of  eight  to  ten  inches  a 
year.  Of  course  all  very  large  trees  are  old,  but 
those  equal  in  size  may  vary  greatly  in  age  on 
account  of  variations  in  soil,  closeness  or  open- 
ness of  growth,  etc.  Thus  a  tree  about  ten  feet 
in  diameter  that  grew  on  the  side  of  a  meadow 
was,  according  to  my  own  count  of  the  wood- 
rings,  only  two  hundred  and  fifty-nine  years  old 
at  the  time  it  was  felled,  while  another  in  the 
same  grove,  of  almost  exactly  the  same  size  but 
less  favorably  situated,  was  fourteen  hundred  and 
forty  years  old.  The  Calaveras  tree  cut  for  a 
dance  floor  was  twenty-four  feet  in  diameter  and 
only  thirteen  hundred  years  old,  another  about 
the  same  size  was  a  thousand  years  older. 


280 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 


The  following  Sequoia  notes  and  measurements 
are  copied  from  my  notebooks :  — 


Diameter. 
Feet.  Inches. 


0 
0 
0 
0 
0 
0 
0 

1 

3 

6 

7 

7 

7 

7 

9 

9 

10 

12 

15 

24 

25 

35 


1  3-4 
5 
5 
6 
6 
8 
11 
0 
2 
0 
3 
3 
6 
7 
0 
3 
6 


8  inside  bark 


i  6  feet  in  diameter  at  height  of  200  feet. 
*  7  feet  in  diameter  at  height  of  200  feet. 


Height  in 
Feet. 

Age. 
Years. 

10 

7 

24 

20 

25 

41 

25 

66 

28  1-2 

39 

25 

29 

45 

71 

60 

71 

156 

260 

192 

240 

195 

339 

255 

506 

240 

493 

207 

424 

243 

259 

222 

280 

1440 

18251 

2150  2 

1300 

2300 

over  4000 

Little,  however,  is  to  be  learned  in  confused, 
hurried  tourist  trips,  spending  only  a  poor  noisy 
hour  in  a  branded  grove  with  a  guide.  You 
should  go  looking  and  listening  alone  on  long 
walks  through  the  wild  forests  and  groves  in  all 
the  seasons  of  the  year.  In  the  spring  the  winds 
are  balmy  and  sweet,  blowing  up  and  down  over 
great  beds  of  chaparral  and  through  the  woods 
now  rich  in  softening  balsam  and  rosin  and  the 


THE  SEQUOIA  281 

scent  of  steaming  earth.  The  sky  is  mostly  sun- 
shine, oftentimes  tempered  by  magnificent  clouds, 
the  breath  of  the  sea  built  up  into  new  mountain 
ranges,  warm  during  the  day,  cool  at  night,  good 
flower-opening  weather.  The  young  cones  of 
the  Big  Trees  are  showing  in  clusters,  their  flower 
time  already  past,  and  here  and  there  you  may 
see  the  sprouting  of  their  tiny  seeds  of  the  pre- 
vious autumn,  taking  their  first  feeble  hold  of  the 
ground  and  unpacking  their  tender  whorls  of 
cotyledon  leaves.  Then  you  will  naturally  be  led 
on  to  consider  their  wonderful  growth  up  and  up 
through  the  mountain  weather,  now  buried  in 
snow  bent  and  crinkled,  now  straightening  in 
summer  sunshine  like  uncoiling  ferns,  shooting 
eagerly  aloft  in  youth's  joyful  prime,  and  tower- 
ing serene  and  satisfied  through  countless  years  of 
calm  and  storm,  the  greatest  of  plants  and  all 
but  immortal. 

Under  the  huge  trees  up  come  the  small  plant 
people,  putting  forth  fresh  leaves  and  blossoming 
in  such  profusion  that  the  hills  and  valleys 
would  still  seem  gloriously  rich  and  glad  were 
all  the  grand  trees  away.  By  the  side  of  melt- 
ing snowbanks  rise  the  crimson  sarcodes,  round- 
topped  and  massive  as  the  Sequoias  themselves, 
and  beds  of  blue  violets  and  larger  yellow  ones 
with  leaves  curiously  lobed;  azalea  and  saxi- 
frage, daisies  and  lilies  on  the  mossy  banks  of 
the  streams ;  and  a  little  way  back  of  them,  be- 


282  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

neath  the  trees  and  on  sunny  spots  on  the  hills 
around  the  groves,  wild  rose  and  rubus,  spiraea 
and  ribes,  mitella,  tiarella,  campanula,  monar- 
della,  forget-me-not,  etc.,  many  of  them  as 
worthy  of  lore  immortality  as  the  famous  Scotch 
daisy,  wanting  only  a  Burns  to  sing  them  home 
to  all  hearts. 

In  the  midst  of  this  glad  plant  work  the  birds 
are  busy  nesting,  some  singing  at  their  work, 
some  silent,  others,  especially  the  big  pileated 
woodpeckers,  about  as  noisy  as  backwoodsmen 
building  their  cabins.  Then  every  bower  in  the 
groves  is  a  bridal  bower,  the  winds  murmur 
softly  overhead,  the  streams  sing  with  the  birds, 
while  from  far-off  waterfalls  and  thunder-clouds 
come  deep  rolling  organ  notes. 

In  summer  the  days  go  by  in  almost  constant 
brightness,  cloudless  sunshine  pouring  over  the 
forest  roof,  while  in  the  shady  depths  there  is  the 
subdued  light  of  perpetual  morning.  The  new 
leaves  and  cones  are  growing  fast  and  make  a 
grand  show,  seeds  are  ripening,  young  birds 
learning  to  fly,  and  with  myriads  of  insects  glad 
as  birds  keep  the  air  whirling,  joy  in  every  wing- 
beat,  their  humming  and  singing  blending  with 
the  gentle  ah-ing  of  the  winds ;  while  at  even- 
ing every  thicket  and  grove  is  enchanted  by  the 
tranquil  chirping  of  the  blessed  hylas,  the  sweet- 
est and  most  peaceful  of  sounds,  telling  the  very 
heart-joy  of  earth  as  it  rolls  through  the  heavens. 


THE  SEQUOIA  283 

In  the  autumn  the  sighing  of  the  winds  is 
softer  than  ever,  the  gentle  ah-ah-ing  filling  the 
sky  with  a  fine  universal  mist  of  music,  the  birds 
have  little  to  say,  and  there  is  no  appreciable  stir 
or  rustling  among  the  trees  save  that  caused  by 
the  harvesting  squirrels.  Most  of  the  seeds  are 
ripe  and  away,  those  of  the  trees  mottling  the 
sunny  air,  glinting,  glancing  through  the  midst 
of  the  merry  insect  people,  rocks  and  trees, 
everything  alike  drenched  in  gold  light,  heaven's 
colors  coming  down  to  the  meadows  and  groves, 
making  every  leaf  a  romance,  air,  earth,  and 
water  in  peace  beyond  thought,  the  great  brood- 
ing days  opening  and  closing  in  divine  psalms  of 
color. 

Winter  comes  suddenly,  arrayed  in  storms, 
though  to  mountaineers  silky  streamers  on  the 
peaks  and  the  tones  of  the  wind  give  sufficient 
warning.  You  hear  strange  whisperings  among 
the  tree-tops,  as  if  the  giants  were  taking  coun- 
sel together.  One  after  another,  nodding  and 
swaying,  calling  and  replying,  spreads  the  news, 
until  all  with  one  accord  break  forth  into  glori- 
ous song,  welcoming  the  first  grand  snowstorm 
of  the  year,  and  looming  up  in  the  dim  clouds 
and  snowdrifts  like  lighthouse  towers  in  flying 
scud  and  spray.  Studying  the  behavior  of  the 
giants  from  some  friendly  shelter,  you  will  see 
that  even  in  the,  glow  of  their  wildest  enthusiasm, 
when  the  storm  roars  loudest,  they  never  lose 


284  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

their  god-like  composure,  never  toss  their  arms 
or  bow  or  wave  like  the  pines,  but  only  slowly, 
solemnly  nod  and  sway,  standing  erect,  making 
no  sign  of  strife,  none  of  rest,  neither  in  aUiance 
nor  at  war  with  the  winds,  too  calmly,  uncon- 
sciously noble  and  strong  to  strive  with  or  bid 
defiance  to  anything.  Owing  to  the  density  of 
the  leafy  branchlets  and  great  breadth  of  head 
the  Big  Tree  carries  a  much  heavier  load  of 
snow  than  any  of  its  neighbors,  and  after  a 
storm,  when  the  sky  clears,  the  laden  trees  are 
a  glorious  spectacle,  worth  any  amount  of  cold 
camping  to  see.  Every  bossy  limb  and  crown 
is  solid  white,  and  the  immense  height  of  the 
giants  becomes  visible  as  the  eye  travels  the 
white  steps  of  the  colossal  tower,  each  relieved 
by  a  mass  of  blue  shadow. 

In  midwinter  the  forest  depths  are  as  fresh 
and  pure  as  the  crevasses  and  caves  of  glaciers. 
Grouse,  nuthatches,  a  few  woodpeckers,  and 
other  hardy  birds  dwell  in  the  groves  all  winter, 
and  the  squirrels  may  be  seen  every  clear  day 
frisking  about,  lively  as  ever,  tunneling  to  their 
stores,  never  coming  up  empty-mouthed,  diving 
in  the  loose  snow  about  as  quickly  as  ducks  in 
water,  while  storms  and  sunshine  sing  to  each 
other. 

One  of  the  noblest  and  most  beautiful  of  the 
late  winter  sights  is  the  blossoming  of  the  Big  Tree 
like  gigantic  goldenrods  and  the  sowing  of  their 


THE  SEQUOIA  285 

pollen  over  all  the  forest  and  the  snow-covered 
ground  —  a  most  glorious  view  of  Nature's  im- 
mortal virility  and  flower-love. 

One  of  my  own  best  excursions  among  the 
Sequoias  was  made  in  the  autumn  of  1875,  when 
I  explored  the  then  unknown  or  little  known 
Sequoia  region  south  of  the  Mariposa  Grove  for 
comprehensive  views  of  the  belt,  and  to  learn 
what  I  could  of  the  peculiar  distribution  of  the 
species  and  its  history  in  general.  In  particular 
I  was  anxious  to  try  to  find  out  whether  it  had 
ever  been  more  widely  distributed  since  the  gla- 
cial period ;  what  conditions  favorable  or  other- 
wise were  affecting  it ;  what  were  its  relations  to 
climate,  topography,  soil,  and  the  other  trees 
growing  with  it,  etc. ;  and  whether,  as  was  gen- 
erally supposed,  the  species  was  nearing  extinc- 
tion. I  was  already  acquainted  in  a  general  way 
with  the  northern  groves,  but  excepting  some 
passing  glimpses  gained  on  excursions  into  the 
high  Sierra  about  the  head-waters  of  Kings  and 
Kern  rivers  I  had  seen  nothing  of  the  south  end 
of  the  belt. 

Nearly  all  my  mountaineering  has  been  done 
on  foot,  carrying  as  little  as  possible,  depending 
on  camp-fires  for  warmth,  that  so  I  might  be  light 
and  free  to  go  wherever  my  studies  might  lead. 
On  this  Sequoia  trip,  which  promised  to  be 
long,  I  was  persuaded  to  take  a  small  wild  mule 
with  me  to  carry  provisions  and  a  pair  of  blan- 


286  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

kets.  The  friendly  owner  of  the  animal,  having 
noticed  that  I  sometimes  looked  tired  when  I 
came  down  from  the  peaks  to  replenish  my  bread 
sack,  assured  me  that  his  "  little  Brownie  mule  " 
was  just  what  I  wanted,  tough  as  a  knot,  per- 
fectly untirable,  low  and  narrow,  just  right  for 
squeezing  through  brush,  able  to  climb  like  a 
chipmunk,  jump  from  boulder  to  boulder  like  a 
wild  sheep,  and  go  anywhere  a  man  could  go. 
But  tough  as  he  was  and  accomplished  as  a 
climber,  many  a  time  in  the  course  of  our  journey 
when  he  was  jaded  and  hungry,  wedged  fast  in 
rocks  or  struggling  in  chaparral  like  a  fly  in  a 
spiderweb,  his  troubles  were  sad  to  see,  and  I 
wished  he  would  leave  me  and  find  his  way  home 
alone. 

We  set  out  from  Yosemite  about  the  end  of 
August,  and  our  first  camp  was  made  in  the  well- 
known  Mariposa  Grove.  Here  and  in  the  adjacent 
pine  woods  I  spent  nearly  a  week,  carefully  exam- 
ining the  boundaries  of  the  grove  for  traces  of  its 
greater  extension  without  finding  any.  Then  I 
struck  out  into  the  majestic  trackless  forest  to  the 
southeastward,  hoping  to  find  new  groves  or  traces 
of  old  ones  in  the  dense  silver  fir  and  pine  woods 
about  the  head  of  Big  Creek,  where  soil  and  cli- 
mate seemed  most  favorable  to  their  growth,  but 
not  a  single  tree  or  old  monument  of  any  sort  came 
to  light  until  I  climbed  the  high  rock  called 
Wamellow  by  the  Indians.  Here  I  obtained  tell- 


THE  SEQUOIA  287 

ing  views  of  the  fertile  forest-filled  basin  of  the 
upper  Fresno.  Innumerable  spires  of  the  noble 
yellow  pine  were  displayed  rising  above  one  an- 
other on  the  braided  slopes,  and  yet  nobler  sugar 
pines  with  superb  arms  outstretched  in  the  rich 
autumn  light,  while  away  toward  the  southwest, 
on  the  verge  of  the  glowing  horizon,  I  discov- 
ered the  majestic  dome-like  crowns  of  Big  Trees 
towering  high  over  all,  singly  and  in  close  grove 
congregations.  There  is  something  wonderfully 
attractive  in  this  king  tree,  even  when  beheld 
from  afar,  that  draws  us  to  it  with  indescrib- 
able enthusiasm;  its  superior  height  and  mas- 
sive smoothly  rounded  outlines  proclaiming  its 
character  in  any  company ;  and  when  one  of 
the  oldest  attains  full  stature  on  some  com- 
manding ridge  it  seems  the  very  god  of  the 
woods.  I  ran  back  to  camp,  packed  Brownie, 
steered  over  the  divide  and  down  into  the  heart 
of  the  Fresno  Grove.  Then  choosing  a  camp 
on  the  side  of  a  brook  where  the  grass  was  good, 
I  made  a  cup  of  tea,  and  set  off  free  among  the 
brown  giants,  glorying  in  the  abundance  of  new 
work  about  me.  One  of  the  first  special  things 
that  caught  my  attention  was  an  extensive  land- 
slip. The  ground  on  the  side  of  a  stream  had 
given  way  to  a  depth  of  about  fifty  feet  and 
with  all  its  trees  had  been  launched  into  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stream  ravine.  Most  of  the  trees  — 
pines,  firs,  incense  cedar,  and  Sequoia — were  still 


288  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

standing  erect  and  uninjured,  as  if  unconscious 
that  anything  out  of  the  common  had  happened. 
Tracing  the  ravine  alongside  the  avalanche,  I 
saw  many  trees  whose  roots  had  been  laid  bare, 
and  in  one  instance  discovered  a  Sequoia  about 
fifteen  feet  in  diameter  growing  above  an  old 
prostrate  trunk  that  seemed  to  belong  to  a 
former  generation.  This  slip  had  occurred  seven 
or  eight  years  ago,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  that 
not  only  were  most  of  the  Big  Trees  uninjured, 
but  that  many  companies  of  hopeful  seedlings 
and  saplings  were  growing  confidently  on  the 
fresh  soil  along  the  broken  front  of  the  ava- 
lanche. These  young  trees  were  already  eight  or 
ten  feet  high,  and  were  shooting  up  vigorously, 
as  if  sure  of  eternal  life,  though  young  pines, 
firs,  and  libocedrus  were  runing  a  race  with  them 
for  the  sunshine  with  an  even  start.  Farther 
down  the  ravine  I  counted  five  hundred  and 
thirty-six  promising  young  Sequoias  on  a  bed  of 
rough  bouldery  soil  not  exceeding  two  acres  in 
extent. 

The  Fresno  Big  Trees  covered  an  area  of 
about  four  square  miles,  and  while  wandering 
about  surveying  the  boundaries  of  the  grove, 
anxious  to  see  every  tree,  I  came  suddenly  on  a 
handsome  log  cabin,  richly  embowered  and  so 
fresh  and  unweathered  it  was  still  redolent  of 
gum  and  balsam  like  a  newly  felled  tree.  Stroll- 
ing forward,  wondering  who  could  have  built  it, 


THE  SEQUOIA  289 

I  found  an  old,  weary-eyed,  speculative,  gray- 
haired  man  on  a  bark  stool  by  the  door,  reading 
a  book.  The  discovery  of  his  hermitage  by  a 
stranger  seemed  to  surprise  him,  but  when  I  ex- 
plained that  I  was  only  a  tree-lover  sauntering 
along  the  mountains  to  study  Sequoia,  he  bade 
me  welcome,  made  me  bring  my  mule  down  to  a 
little  slanting  meadow  before  his  door  and  camp 
with  him,  promising  to  show  me  his  pet  trees 
and  many  curious  things  bearing  on  my  studies. 
After  supper,  as  the  evening  shadows  were 
falling,  the  good  hermit  sketched  his  life  in  the 
mines,  which  in  the  main  was  like  that  of  most 
other  pioneer  gold-hunters  —  a  succession  of  in- 
tense experiences  full  of  big  ups  and  downs  like 
the  mountain  topography.  Since  "  '49  "  he  had 
wandered  over  most  of  the  Sierra,  sinking  in- 
numerable prospect  holes  like  a  sailor  making 
soundings,  digging  new  channels  for  streams, 
sifting  gold-sprinkled  boulder  and  gravel  beds 
with  unquenchable  energy,  life's  noon  the  mean- 
while passing  unnoticed  into  late  afternoon  shad- 
ows. Then,  health  and  gold  gone,  the  game 
played  and  lost,  like  a  wounded  deer  creeping 
into  this  forest  solitude,  he  awaits  the  sundown 
call.  .How  sad  the  undertones  of  many  a  life 
here,  now  the  noise  of  the  first  big  gold  battles 
has  died  away  !  How  many  interesting  wrecks 
lie  drifted  and  stranded  in  hidden  nooks  of  the 
gold  region !  Perhaps  no  other  range  contains 


290  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS. 

the  remains  of  so  many  rare  and  interesting  men. 
The  name  of  my  hermit  friend  is  John  A.  Nelder, 
a  fine  kind  man,  who  in  going  into  the  woods  has 
at  last  gone  home  ;  for  he  loves  nature  truly,  and 
realizes  that  these  last  shadowy  days  with  scarce  a 
glint  of  gold  in  them  are  the  best  of  all.  Birds, 
squirrels,  plants  get  loving,  natural  recognition, 
and  delightful  it  was  to  see  how  sensitively  he 
responds  to  the  silent  influences  of  the  woods. 
His  eyes  brightened  as  he  gazed  on  the  trees  that 
stand  guard  around  his  little  home;  squirrels 
and  mountain  quail  came  to  his  call  to  be  fed, 
and  he  tenderly  stroked  the  little  snowbent  sap- 
ling Sequoias,  hoping  they  yet  might  grow 
straight  to  the  sky  and  rule  the  grove.  One  of 
the  greatest  of  his  trees  stands  a  little  way  back  of 
his  cabin,  and  he  proudly  led  me  to  it,  bidding  me 
admire  its  colossal  proportions  and  measure  it  to 
see  if  in  all  the  forest  there  could  be  another  so 
grand.  It  proved  to  be  only  twenty-six  feet  in 
diameter,  and  he  seemed  distressed  to  learn  that 
the  Mariposa  Grizzly  Giant  was  larger.  I  tried 
to  comfort  him  by  observing  that  his  was  the  taller, 
finer  formed,  and  perhaps  the  more  favorably 
situated.  Then  he  led  me  to  some  noble  ruins, 
remnants  of  gigantic  trunks  of  trees  that  he  sup- 
posed must  have  been  larger  than  any  now 
standing,  and  though  they  had  lain  on  the  damp 
ground  exposed  to  fire  and  the  weather  for  cen- 
turies, the  wood  was  perfectly  sound.  Sequoia 


THE  SEQUOIA  291 

timber  is  not  only  beautiful  in  color,  rose  red 
when  fresh,  and  as  easily  worked  as  pine,  but 
it  is  almost  absolutely  unperishable.  Build  a 
house  of  Big  Tree  logs  on  granite  and  that  house 
will  last  about  as  long  as  its  foundation.  In- 
deed fire  seems  to  be  the  only  agent  that  has 
any  appreciable  effect  on  it.  From  one  of  these 
ancient  trunk  remnants  I  cut  a  specimen  of  the 
wood,  which  neither  in  color,  strength,  nor 
soundness  could  be  distinguished  from  speci- 
mens cut  from  living  trees,  although  it  had  cer- 
tainly lain  on  the  damp  forest  floor  for  more  than 
three  hundred  and  eighty  years,  probably  more 
than  thrice  as  long.  The  time  in  this  instance 
was  determined  as  follows  :  When  the  tree  from 
which  the  specimen  was  derived  fell  it  sunk  itself 
into  the  ground,  making  a  ditch  about  two 
hundred  feet  long  and  five  or  six  feet  deep; 
and  in  the  middle  of  this  ditch,  where  a  part 
of  the  fallen  trunk  had  been  burned,  a  silver 
fir  four  feet  in  diameter  and  three  hundred  and 
eighty  years  old  was  growing,  showing  that  the 
Sequoia  trunk  had  lain  on  the  ground  three 
hundred  and  eighty  years  plus  the  unknown  time 
that  it  lay  before  the  part  whose  place  had  been 
taken  by  the  fir  was  burned  out  of  the  way,  and 
that  which  had  elapsed  ere  the  seed  from  which 
the  monumental  fir  sprang  fell  into  the  prepared 
soil  and  took  root.  Now  because  Sequoia  trunks 
are  never  wholly  consumed  in  one  forest  fire  and 


292  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

these  fires  recur  only  at  considerable  intervals, 
and  because  Sequoia  ditches,  after  being  cleared, 
are  often  left  unplanted  for  centuries,  it  becomes 
evident  that  the  trunk  remnant  in  question  may 
have  been  on  the  ground  a  thousand  years  or 
more.  Similar  vestiges  are  common,  and  to- 
gether with  the  root-bowls  and  long  straight 
ditches  of  the  fallen  monarchs,  throw  a  sure  light 
back  on  the  post-glacial  history  of  the  species, 
bearing  on  its  distribution.  One  of  the  most  in- 
teresting features  of  this  grove  is  the  apparent 
ease  and  strength  and  comfortable  independ- 
ence in  which  the  trees  occupy  their  place  in 
the  general  forest.  Seedlings,  saplings,  young 
and  middle-aged  trees  are  grouped  promisingly 
around  the  old  patriarchs,  betraying  no  sign  of 
approach  to  extinction.  On  the  contrary,  all 
seem  to  be  saying,  "  Everything  is  to  our  mind 
and  we  mean  to  live  forever."  But,  sad  to  tell, 
a  lumber  company  was  building  a  large  mill  and 
flume  near  by,  assuring  widespread  destruction. 
In  the  cones  and  sometimes  in  the  lower  portion 
of  the  trunk  and  roots  there  is  a  dark  gritty  sub- 
stance which  dissolves  readily  in  water  and  yields 
a  magnificent  purple  color.  It  is  a  strong  astrin- 
gent, and  is  said  to  be  used  by  the  Indians  as  a  big 
medicine.  Mr.  Nelder  showed  me  specimens  of 
ink  he  had  made  from  it,  which  I  tried  and  found 
good,  flowing  freely  and  holding  its  color  well. 
Indeed  everything  about  the  tree  seems  constant. 


THE  SEQUOIA  293 

With  these  interesting  trees,  forming  the  largest 
of  the  northern  groves,  I  stopped  only  a  week, 
for  I  had  far  to  go  before  the  fall  of  the  snow. 
The  hermit  seemed  to  cling  to  me  and  tried  to 
make  me  promise  to  winter  with  him  after  the 
season's  work  was  done.  Brownie  had  to  be  got 
home,  however,  and  other  work  awaited  me, 
therefore  I  could  only  promise  to  stop  a  day  or 
two  on  my  way  back  to  Yosemite  and  give  him 
the  forest  news. 

The  next  two  weeks  were  spent  in  the  wide 
basin  of  the  San  Joaquin,  climbing  innumer- 
able ridges  and  surveying  the  far-extending  sea 
of  pines  and  firs.  But  not  a  single  Sequoia 
crown  appeared  among  them  all,  nor  any  trace 
of  a  fallen  trunk,  until  I  had  crossed  the  south 
divide  of  the  basin,  opposite  Dinky  Creek,  one  of 
the  northmost  tributaries  of  Kings  River.  On 
this  stream  there  is  a  small  grove,  said  to  have 
been  discovered  a  few  years  before  my  visit  by 
two  hunters  in  pursuit  of  a  wounded  bear.  Just 
as  I  was  fording  one  of  the  branches  of  Dinky 
Creek  I  met  a  shepherd,  and  when  I  asked  him 
whether  he  knew  anything  about  the  Big  Trees  of 
the  neighborhood  he  replied,  "  I  know  all  about 
them,  for  I  visited  them  only  a  few  days  ago  and 
pastured  my  sheep  in  the  grove."  He  was  fresh 
from  the  East,  and  as  this  was  his  first  summer  in 
the  Sierra  I  was  curious  to  learn  what  impression 
the  Sequoias  had  made  on  him.  When  I  asked 


294  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

whether  it  was  true  that  the  Big  Trees  were 
really  so  big  as  people  say,  he  warmly  replied, 
"  Oh,  yes  sir,  you  bet.  They  're  whales.  I  never 
used  to  believe  half  I  heard  about  the  awful  size  of 
California  trees,  but  they  're  monsters  and  no  mis- 
take. One  of  them  over  here,  they  tell  me,  is  the 
biggest  tree  in  the  whole  world,  and  I  guess  it  is, 
for  it 's  forty  foot  through  and  as  many  good 
long  paces  around."  He  was  very  earnest,  and  in 
fullness  of  faith  offered  to  guide  me  to  the  grove 
that  I  might  not  miss  seeing  this  biggest  tree. 
A  fair  measurement  four  feet  from  the  ground, 
above  the  main  swell  of  the  roots,  showed  a 
diameter  of  only  thirty-two  feet,  much  to  the 
young  man's  disgust.  "  Only  thirty-two  feet," 
he  lamented,  "only  thirty-two,  and  I  always 
thought  it  was  forty ! "  Then  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  "  No  matter,  that 's  a  big  tree,  anyway  ; 
no  fool  of  a  tree,  sir,  that  you  can  cut  a  plank 
out  of  thirty  feet  broad,  straight-edged,  no  bark, 
all  good  wood,  sound  and  solid.  It  would  make 
the  brag  white  pine  planks  from  old  Maine  look 
like  laths."  A  good  many  other  fine  specimens 
are  distributed  along  three  small  branches  of  the 
creek,  and  I  noticed  several  thrifty  moderate- 
sized  Sequoias  growing  on  a  granite  ledge,  appar- 
ently as  independent  of  deep  soil  as  the  pines  and 
firs,  clinging  to  seams  and  fissures  and  sending 
their  roots  far  abroad  in  search  of  moisture. 
The  creek  is  very  clear  and  beautiful,  gliding 


THE   SEQUOIA  295 

through  tangles  of  shrubs  and  flower  beds,  gay 
bee  and  butterfly  pastures,  the  grove's  own 
stream,  pure  Sequoia  water,  flowing  all  the  year, 
every  drop  filtered  through  moss  and  leaves  and 
the  myriad  spongy  rootlets  of  the  giant  trees. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  grove 
is  a  small  waterfall  with  a  flowery,  ferny,  clear 
brimming  pool  at  the  foot  of  it.  How  cheerily 
it  sings  the  songs  of  the  wilderness,  and  how 
sweet  its  tones !  You  seem  to  taste  as  well  as 
hear  them,  while  only  the  subdued  roar  of  the 
river  in  the  deep  canon  reaches  up  into  the  grove, 
sounding  like  the  sea  and  the  winds.  So  charm- 
ing a  fall  and  pool  in  the  heart  of  so  glorious  a 
forest  good  pagans  would  have  consecrated  to 
some  lovely  nymph. 

Hence  down  into  the  main  Kings  River  canon, 
a  mile  deep,  I  led  and  dragged  and  shoved  my 
patient,  much-enduring  mule  through  miles  and 
miles  of  gardens  and  brush,  fording  innumerable 
streams,  crossing  savage  rock  slopes  and  taluses, 
scrambling,  sliding  through  gulches  and  gorges, 
then  up  into  the  grand  Sequoia  forests  of  the 
south  side,  cheered  by  the  royal  crowns  displayed 
on  the  narrow  horizon.  In  a  day  and  a  half  we 
reached  the  Sequoia  woods  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  old  Thomas'  Mill  Flat.  Thence  striking 
off  northeastward  I  found  a  magnificent  forest 
nearly  six  miles  long  by  two  in  width,  composed 
mostly  of  Big  Trees,  with  outlying  groves  as  far 


296  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

east  as  Boulder  Creek.  Here  five  or  six  days 
were  spent,  and  it  was  delightful  to  learn  from 
countless  trees,  old  and  young,  how  comfortably 
they  were  settled  down  in  concordance  with  cli- 
mate and  soil  and  their  noble  neighbors. 

Imbedded  in  these  majestic  woods  there  are 
numerous  meadows,  around  the  sides  of  which 
the  Big  Trees  press  close  together  in  beautiful 
lines,  showing  their  grandeur  openly  from  the 
ground  to  their  domed  heads  in  the  sky.  The 
young  trees  are  still  more  numerous  and  exu- 
berant than  in  the  Fresno  and  Dinky  groves, 
standing  apart  in  beautiful  family  groups,  or 
crowding  around  the  old  giants.  For  every  ven- 
erable lightning-stricken  tree,  there  is  one  or 
more  in  all  the  glory  of  prime,  and  for  each  of 
these,  many  young  trees  and  crowds  of  saplings. 
The  young  trees  express  the  grandeur  of  their 
race  in  a  way  indefinable  by  any  words  at  my 
command.  When  they  are  five  or  six  feet  in 
diameter  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  they 
seem  like  mere  baby  saplings  as  many  inches  in 
diameter,  their  juvenile  habit  and  gestures  com- 
pletely veiling  their  real  size,  even  to  those  who, 
from  long  experience,  are  able  to  make  fair  ap- 
proximation in  their  measurements  of  common 
trees.  One  morning  I  noticed  three  airy,  spiry, 
quick-growing  babies  on  the  side  of  a  meadow, 
the  largest  of  which  I  took  to  be  about  eight 
inches  in  diameter.  On  measuring  it,  I  found  to 


THE  SEQUOIA  297 

my  astonishment  it  was  five  feet  six  inches  in 
diameter,  and  about  a  hundred  and  forty  feet 
high. 

On  a  bed  of  sandy  ground  fifteen  yards  square, 
which  had  been  occupied  by  four  sugar  pines, 
I  counted  ninety-four  promising  seedlings,  an 
instance  of  Sequoia  gaining  ground  from  its 
neighbors.  Here  also  I  noted  eighty-six  young 
Sequoias  from  one  to  fifty  feet  high  on  less  than 
half  an  acre  of  ground  that  had  been  cleared  and 
prepared  for  their  reception  by  fire.  This  was  a 
small  bay  burned  into  dense  chaparral,  showing 
that  fire,  the  great  destroyer  of  tree  life,  is  some- 
times followed  by  conditions  favorable  for  new 
growths.  Sufficient  fresh  soil,  however,  is  fur- 
nished for  the  constant  renewal  of  the  forest  by 
the  fall  of  old  trees  without  the  help  of  any  other 
agent,  —  burrowing  animals,  fire,  flood,  landslip, 
etc.,  —  for  the  ground  is  thus  turned  and  stirred 
as  well  as  cleared,  and  in  every  roomy,  shady  hol- 
low beside  the  walls  of  upturned  roots  many 
hopeful  seedlings  spring  up. 

The  largest,  and  as  far  as  I  know  the  oldest,  of 
all  the  Kings  River  trees  that  I  saw  is  the  ma- 
jestic stump,  already  referred  to,  about  a  hundred 
and  forty  feet  high,  which  above  the  swell  of  the 
roots  is  thirty-five  feet  and  eight  inches  inside  the 
bark,  and  over  four  thousand  years  old.  It  was 
burned  nearly  half  through  at  the  base,  and  I 
spent  a  day  in  chopping  off  the  charred  surface, 


298  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

cutting  into  the  heart,  and  counting  the  wood- 
rings  with  the  aid  of  a  lens.  I  made  out  a  little 
over  four  thousand  without  difficulty  or  doubt, 
but  I  was  unable  to  get  a  complete  count,  owing 
to  confusion  in  the  rings  where  wounds  had  been 
healed  over.  Judging  by  what  is  left  of  it,  this 
was  a  fine,  tall,  symmetrical  tree  nearly  forty  feet 
in  diameter  before  it  lost  its  bark.  In  the  last 
sixteen  hundred  and  seventy-two  years  the  in- 
crease in  diameter  was  ten  feet.  A  short  distance 
south  of  this  forest  lies  a  beautiful  grove,  now 
mostly  included  in  the  General  Grant  National 
Park.  I  found  many  shake-makers  at  work  in 
it,  access  to  these  magnificent  woods  having  been 
made  easy  by  the  old  mill  wagon  road.  The  Park 
is  only  two  miles  square,  and  the  largest  of  its 
many  fine  trees  is  the  General  Grant,  so  named 
before  the  date  of  my  first  visit,  twenty-eight  years 
ago,  and  said  to  be  the  largest  tree  in  the  world, 
though  above  the  craggy  bulging  base  the  dia- 
meter is  less  than  thirty  feet.  The  Sanger  Lum- 
ber Company  owns  nearly  all  the  Kings  River 
groves  outside  the  Park,  and  for  many  years  the 
mills  have  been  spreading  desolation  without  any 
advantage. 

One  of  the  shake-makers  directed  me  to  an 
"old  snag  biggeren  Grant."  It  proved  to  be  a 
huge  black  charred  stump  thirty-two  feet  in  dia- 
meter, the  next  in  size  to  the  grand  monument 
mentioned  above. 


THE  SEQUOIA  299 

I  found  a  scattered  growth  of  Big  Trees  ex- 
tending across  the  main  divide  to  within  a  short 
distance  of  Hyde's  Mill,  on  a  tributary  of  Dry 
Creek.  The  mountain  ridge  on  the  south  side  of 
the  stream  was  covered  from  base  to  summit  with 
a  most  superb  growth  of  Big  Trees.  What  a 
picture  it  made !  In  all  my  wide  forest  wanderings 
I  had  seen  none  so  sublime.  Every  tree  of  all 
the  mighty  host  seemed  perfect  in  beauty  and 
strength,  and  their  majestic  domed  heads,  rising 
above  one  another  on  the  mountain  slope,  were 
most  imposingly  displayed,  like  a  range  of  bossy 
upswelling  cumulus  clouds  on  a  calm  sky. 

In  this  glorious  forest  the  mill  was  busy,  form- 
ing a  sore,  sad  centre  of  destruction,  though  small 
as  yet,  so  immensely  heavy  was  the  growth. 
Only  the  smaller  and  most  accessible  of  the  trees 
were  being  cut.  The  logs,  from  three  to  ten  or 
twelve  feet  in  diameter,  were  dragged  or  rolled 
with  long  strings  of  oxen  into  a  chute  and  sent 
flying  down  the  steep  mountain  side  to  the  mill 
flat,  where  the  largest  of  them  were  blasted  into 
manageable  dimensions  for  the  saws.  And  as 
the  timber  is  very  brash,  by  this  blasting  and 
careless  felling  on  uneven  ground,  half  or  three 
fourths  of  the  timber  was  wasted. 

I  spent  several  days  exploring  the  ridge  and 
counting  the  annual  wood  rings  on  a  large  num- 
ber of  stumps  in  the  clearings,  then  replenished 
my  bread  sack  and  pushed  on  southward.  All 


300  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  way  across  the  broad  rough  basins  of  the 
Kaweah  and  Tule  rivers  Sequoia  ruled  supreme, 
forming  an  almost  continuous  belt  for  sixty  or 
seventy  miles,  waving  up  and  down  in  huge 
massy  mountain  billows  in  compliance  with  the 
grand  glacier-ploughed  topography. 

Day  after  day,  from  grove  to  grove,  canon  to 
canon,  I  made  a  long,  wavering  way,  terribly 
rough  in  some  places  for  Brownie,  but  cheery 
for  me,  for  Big  Trees  were  seldom  out  of  sight. 
We  crossed  the  rugged,  picturesque  basins  of 
Redwood  Creek,  the  North  Fork  of  the  Kaweah, 
and  Marble  Fork  gloriously  forested,  and  full  of 
beautiful  cascades  and  falls,  sheer  and  slanting, 
infinitely  varied  with  broad  curly  foam  fleeces 
and  strips  of  embroidery  in  which  the  sunbeams 
revel.  Thence  we  climbed  into  the  noble  forest 
on  the  Marble  and  Middle  Fork  Divide.  After 
a  general  exploration  of  the  Kaweah  basin,  this 
part  of  the  Sequoia  belt  seemed  to  me  the  finest, 
and  I  then  named  it  "  the  Giant  Forest."  It  ex- 
tends, a  magnificent  growth  of  giants  grouped  in 
pure  temple  groves,  ranged  in  colonnades  along 
the  sides  of  meadows,  or  scattered  among  the 
other  trees,  from  the  granite  headlands  overlook- 
ing the  hot  foothills  and  plains  of  the  San  Joaquin 
back  to  within  a  few  miles  of  the  old  glacier 
fountains  at  an  elevation  of  5000  to  8400  feet 
above  the  sea. 

When  I  entered  this  sublime  wilderness  the 


THE  SEQUOIA  301 

day  was  nearly  done,  the  trees  with  rosy,  glowing 
countenances  seemed  to  be  hushed  and  thought- 
ful, as  if  waiting  in  conscious  religious  dependence 
on  the  sun,  and  one  naturally  walked  softly  and 
awe-stricken  among  them.  I  wandered  on,  meet- 
ing nobler  trees  where  all  are  noble,  subdued  in 
the  general  calm,  as  if  in  some  vast  hall  pervaded 
by  the  deepest  sanctities  and  solemnities  that  sway 
human  souls.  At  sundown  the  trees  seemed  to 
cease  their  worship  and  breathe  free.  I  heard 
the  birds  going  home.  I  too  sought  a  home  for 
the  night  on  the  edge  of  a  level  meadow  where 
there  is  a  long,  open  view  between  the  evenly 
ranked  trees  standing  guard  along  its  sides. 
Then  after  a  good  place  was  found  for  poor 
Brownie,  who  had  had  a  hard,  weary  day  sliding 
and  scrambling  across  the  Marble  Canon,  I  made 
my  bed  and  supper  and  lay  on  my  back  looking 
up  to  the  stars  through  pillared  arches  finer  far 
than  the  pious  heart  of  man,  telling  its  love,  ever 
reared.  Then  I  took  a  walk  up  the  meadow  to 
see  the  trees  in  the  pale  light.  They  seemed  still 
more  marvelously  massive  and  tall  than  by  day, 
heaving  their  colossal  heads  into  the  depths  of 
the  sky,  among  the  stars,  some  of  which  appeared 
to  be  sparkling  on  their  branches  like  flowers. 
I  built  a  big  fire  that  vividly  illumined  the  huge 
brown  boles  of  the  nearest  trees  and  the  little 
plants  and  cones  and  fallen  leaves  at  their  feet, 
keeping  up  the  show  until  I  fell  asleep  to  dream 


302  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  boundless  forests  and  trail-building  for 
Brownie. 

Joyous  birds  welcomed  the  dawn ;  and  the 
squirrels,  now  their  food  cones  were  ripe  and 
had  to  be  quickly  gathered  and  stored  for  winter, 
began  their  work  before  sunrise.  My  tea-and- 
bread-crumb  breakfast  was  soon  done,  and  leav- 
ing jaded  Brownie  to  feed  and  rest  I  sauntered 
forth  to  my  studies.  In  every  direction  Sequoia 
ruled  the  woods.  Most  of  the  other  big  conifers 
were  present  here  and  there,  but  not  as  rivals  or 
companions.  They  only  served  to  thicken  and 
enrich  the  general  wilderness.  Trees  of  every 
age  cover  craggy  ridges  as  well  as  the  deep  mo- 
raine-soiled slopes,  and  plant  their  magnificent 
shafts  along  every  brookside  and  meadow.  Bogs 
and  meadows  are  rare  or  entirely  wanting  in 
the  isolated  groves  north  of  Kings  River ;  here 
there  is  a  beautiful  series  of  them  lying  on  the 
broad  top  of  the  main  dividing  ridge,  imbedded 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  mammoth  woods  as  if 
for  ornament,  their  smooth,  plushy  bosoms  kept 
bright  and  fertile  by  streams  and  sunshine. 

Resting  awhile  on  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
them  when  the  sun  was  high,  it  seemed  impossible 
that  any  other  forest  picture  in  the  world  could 
rival  it.  There  lay  the  grassy,  flowery  lawn,  three 
fourths  of  a  mile  long,  smoothly  outspread,  bask- 
ing in  mellow  autumn  light,  colored  brown  and 
yellow  and  purple,  streaked  with  Hues  of  green 


THE  SEQUOIA  303 

along  the  streams,  and  ruffled  here  and  there  with 
patches  of  ledum  and  scarlet  vaccinium.  Around 
the  margin  there  is  first  a  fringe  of  azalea  and 
willow  bushes,  colored  orange  yellow,  enlivened 
with  vivid  dashes  of  red  cornel,  as  if  painted. 
Then  up  spring  the  mighty  walls  of  verdure 
three  hundred  feet  high,  the  brown  fluted  pil- 
lars so  thick  and  tall  and  strong  they  seem  fit  to 
uphold  the  sky  ;  the  dense  foliage,  swelling  for- 
ward in  rounded  bosses  on  the  upper  half,  vari- 
ously shaded  and  tinted,  that  of  the  young  trees 
dark  green,  of  the  old  yellowish.  An  aged 
lightning-smitten  patriarch  standing  a  little  for- 
ward beyond  the  general  line  with  knotty  arms 
outspread  was  covered  with  gray  and  yellow 
lichens  and  surrounded  by  a  group  of  saplings 
whose  slender  spires  seemed  to  lack  not  a  single 
leaf  or  spray  in  their  wondrous  perfection.  Such 
was  the  Kaweah  meadow  picture  that  golden 
afternoon,  and  as  I  gazed  every  color  seemed  to 
deepen  and  glow  as  if  the  progress  of  the  fresh 
sun-work  were  visible  from  hour  to  hour,  while 
every  tree  seemed  religious  and  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  God.  A  free  man  revels  in  a  scene 
like  this  and  time  goes  by  unmeasured.  I  stood 
fixed  in  silent  wonder  or  sauntered  about  shift- 
ing my  points  of  view,  studying  the  physiog- 
nomy of  separate  trees,  and  going  out  to  the 
different  color  patches  to  see  how  they  were  put 
on  and  what  they  were  made  of,  giving  free  ex- 


304  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

pression  to  my  joy,  exulting  in  Nature's  wild  im- 
mortal vigor  and  beauty,  never  dreaming  any 
other  human  being  was  near.  Suddenly  the 
spell  was  broken  by  dull  bumping,  thudding 
sounds,  and  a  man  and  horse  came  in  sight  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  meadow,  where  they 
seemed  sadly  out  of  place.  A  good  big  bear  or 
mastodon  or  megatherium  would  have  been  more 
in  keeping  with  the  old  mammoth  forest.  Never- 
theless, it  is  always  pleasant  to  meet  one  of  our 
own  species  after  solitary  rambles,  and  I  stepped 
out  where  I  could  be  seen  and  shouted,  when  the 
rider  reined  in  his  galloping  mustang  and  waited 
my  approach.  He  seemed  too  much  surprised 
to  speak  until,  laughing  in  his  puzzled  face,  I 
said  I  was  glad  to  meet  a  fellow  mountaineer  in 
so  lonely  a  place.  Then  he  abruptly  asked, 
"What  are  you  doing?  How  did  you  get 
here  ? "  I  explained  that  I  came  across  the 
canons  from  Yosemite  and  was  only  looking  at 
the  trees.  "  Oh  then,  I  know,"  he  said,  greatly 
to  my  surprise,  "  you  must  be  John  Muir."  He 
was  herding  a  band  of  horses  that  had  been 
driven  up  a  rough  trail  from  the  lowlands  to  feed 
on  these  forest  meadows.  A  few  handfuls  of 
crumb  detritus  was  all  that  was  left  in  my  bread 
sack,  so  I  told  him  that  I  was  nearly  out  of  pro- 
vision and  asked  whether  he  could  spare  me  a 
little  flour.  "  Oh  yes,  of  course  you  can  have 
anything  I  Ve  got,"  he  said.  "  Just  take  my 


THE  SEQUOIA  305 

track  and  it  will  lead  you  to  my  camp  in  a  big 
hollow  log  on  the  side  of  a  meadow  two  or  three 
miles  from  here.  I  must  ride  after  some  strayed 
horses,  but  I  '11  be  back  before  night ;  in  the 
mean  time  make  yourself  at  home."  He  galloped 
away  to  the  northward,  I  returned  to  my  own 
camp,  saddled  Brownie,  and  by  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  discovered  his  noble  den  in  a  fallen 
Sequoia  hoUowed  by  fire  —  a  spacious  loghouse 
of  one  log,  carbon-lined,  centuries  old  yet  sweet 
and  fresh,  weather  proof,  earthquake  proof, 
likely  to  outlast  the  most  durable  stone  castle, 
and  commanding  views  of  garden  and  grove 
grander  far  than  the  richest  king  ever  enjoyed. 
Brownie  found  plenty  of  grass  and  I  found 
bread,  which  I  ate  with  views  from  the  big 
round,  ever-open  door.  Soon  the  good  Samaritan 
mountaineer  came  in,  and  I  enjoyed  a  famous 
rest  listening  to  his  observations  on  trees,  ani- 
mals, adventures,  etc.,  while  he  was  busily  pre- 
paring supper.  In  answer  to  inquiries  concern- 
ing the  distribution  of  the  Big  Trees  he  gave 
a  good  deal  of  particular  information  of  the 
forest  we  were  in,  and  he  had  heard  that  the 
species  extended  a  long  way  south,  he  knew  not 
how  far.  I  wandered  about  for  several  days 
within  a  radius  of  six  or  seven  miles  of  the  camp, 
surveying  boundaries,  measuring  trees,  and 
climbing  the  highest  points  for  general  views. 
From  the  south  side  of  the  divide  I  saw  telling 


306  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ranks  of  Sequoia-crowned  headlands  stretching 
far  into  the  hazy  distance,  and  plunging  vaguely 
down  into  profound  canon  depths  foreshadowing 
weeks  of  good  work.  I  had  now  been  out  on 
the  trip  more  than  a  month,  and  I  began  to  fear 
my  studies  would  be  interrupted  by  snow,  for 
winter  was  drawing  nigh.  "  Where  there  is  n't 
a  way  make  a  way,"  is  easily  said  when  no  way 
at  the  time  is  needed,  but  to  the  Sierra  explorer 
with  a  mule  traveling  across  the  canon  lines  of 
drainage  the  brave  old  phrase  becomes  heavy 
with  meaning.  There  are  ways  across  the  Sierra 
graded  by  glaciers,  well  marked,  and  followed 
by  men  and  beasts  and  birds,  and  one  of  them 
even  by  locomotives  ;  but  none  natural  or  artifi- 
cial along  the  range,  and  the  explorer  who 
would  thus  travel  at  right  angles  to  the  glacial 
ways  must  traverse  canons  and  ridges  extending 
side  by  side  in  endless  succession,  roughened 
by  side  gorges  and  gulches  and  stubborn  chapar- 
ral, and  defended  by  innumerable  sheer-fronted 
precipices.  My  own  ways  are  easily  made  in  any 
direction,  but  Brownie,  though  one  of  the  tough- 
est and  most  skillful  of  his  race,  was  oftentimes 
discouraged  for  want  of  hands,  and  caused  end- 
less work.  Wild  at  first,  he  was  tame  enough 
now ;  and  when  turned  loose  he  not  only  refused 
to  run  away,  but  as  his  troubles  increased  came 
to  depend  on  me  in  such  a  pitiful,  touching  way, 
I  became  attached  to  him  and  helped  him  as  if 


THE  SEQUO  307 


he  were  a  good-natured  boy  in  distress,  and  then 
the  labor  grew  lighter.  Bidding  good-by  to  the 
kind  Sequoia  cave-dweller,  we  vanished  again  in 
the  wilderness,  drifting  slowly  southward,  Se- 
quoias on  every  ridge-top  beckoning  and  point- 
ing the  way. 

In  the  forest  between  the  Middle  and  East 
forks  of  the  Kaweah,  I  met  a  great  fire,  and  as 
fire  is  the  master  scourge  and  controller  of  the 
distribution  of  trees,  I  stopped  to  watch  it  and 
learn  what  I  could  of  its  works  and  ways  with 
the  giants.  It  came  racing  up  the  steep  chapar- 
ral-covered slopes  of  the  East  Fork  canon  with 
passionate  enthusiasm  in  a  broad  cataract  of 
flames,  now  bending  down  low  to  feed  on  the 
green  bushes,  devouring  acres  of  them  at  a 
breath,  now  towering  high  in  the  air  as  if  look- 
ing abroad  to  choose  a  way,  then  stooping  to 
feed  again,  the  lurid  flapping  surges  and  the 
smoke  and  terrible  rushing  and  roaring  hiding 
all  that  is  gentle  and  orderly  in  the  work.  But 
as  soon  as  the  deep  forest  was  reached  the  un- 
governable flood  became  calm  like  a  torrent  en- 
tering a  lake,  creeping  and  spreading  beneath 
the  trees  where  the  ground  was  level  or  sloped 
gently,  slowly  nibbling  the  cake  of  compressed 
needles  and  scales  with  flames  an  inch  high,  ris- 
ing here  and  there  to  a  foot  or  two  on  dry  twigs 
and  clumps  of  small  bushes  and  brome  grass. 
Only  at  considerable  intervals  were  fierce  bonfires 


308  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

lighted,  where  heavy  branches  broken  off  by 
snow  had  accumulated,  or  around  some  vener- 
able giant  whose  head  had  been  stricken  off  by 
lightning. 

I  tethered  Brownie  on  the  edge  of  a  little 
meadow  beside  a  stream  a  good  safe  way  off,  and 
then  cautiously  chose  a  camp  for  myself  in  a  big 
stout  hollow  trunk  not  likely  to  be  crushed  by 
the  fall  of  burning  trees,  and  made  a  bed  of 
ferns  and  boughs  in  it.  The  night,  however,  and 
the  strange  wild  fireworks  were  too  beautiful  and 
exciting  to  allow  much  sleep.  There  was  no 
danger  of  being  chased  and  hemmed  in,  for  in 
the  main  forest  belt  of  the  Sierra,  even  when 
swift  winds  are  blowing,  fires  seldom  or  never 
sweep  over  the  trees  in  broad  all-embracing 
sheets  as  they  do  in  the  dense  Rocky  Moun- 
tain woods  and  in  those  of  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains of  Oregon  and  Washington.  Here  they 
creep  from  tree  to  tree  with  tranquil  deliberation, 
allowing  close  observation,  though  caution  is  re- 
quired in  venturing  around  the  burning  giants 
to  avoid  falling  limbs  and  knots  and  fragments 
from  dead  shattered  tops.  Though  the  day  was 
best  for  study,  I  sauntered  about  night  after 
night,  learning  what  I  could  and  admiring  the 
wonderful  show  vividly  displayed  in  the  lonely 
darkness,  the  ground-fire  advancing  in  long 
crooked  lines  gently  grazing  and  smoking  on  the 
close-pressed  leaves,  springing  up  in  thousands 


THE  SEQUOIA  309 

of  little  jets  of  pure  flame  on  dry  tassels  and 
twigs,  and  tall  spires  and  flat  sheets  with  jagged 
flapping  edges  dancing  here  and  there  on  grass 
tufts  and  bushes,  big  bonfires  blazing  in  perfect 
storms  of  energy  where  heavy  branches  mixed 
with  small  ones  lay  smashed  together  in  hundred 
cord  piles,  big  red  arches  between  spreading 
root-swells  and  trees  growing  close  together, 
huge  fire-mantled  trunks  on  the  hill  slopes  glow- 
ing like  bars  of  hot  iron,  violet-colored  fire  run- 
ning up  the  tall  trees,  tracing  the  furrows  of  the 
bark  in  quick  quivering  rills,  and  lighting  magnifi- 
cent torches  on  dry  shattered  tops,  and  ever  and 
anon,  with  a  tremendous  roar  and  burst  of  light, 
young  trees  clad  in  low  -  descending  feathery 
branches  vanishing  in  one  flame  two  or  three 
hundred  feet  high. 

One  of  the  most  impressive  and  beautiful 
sights  was  made  by  the  great  fallen  trunks  lying 
on  the  hillsides  all  red  and  glowing  like  colossal 
iron  bars  fresh  from  a  furnace,  two  hundred 
feet  long  some  of  them,  and  ten  to  twenty  feet 
thick.  After  repeated  burnings  have  consumed 
the  bark  and  sap  wood,  the  sound  charred  surface, 
being  full  of  cracks  and  sprinkled  with  leaves, 
is  quickly  overspread  with  a  pure,  rich,  furred, 
ruby  glow  almost  flameless  and  smokeless,  pro- 
ducing a  marvelous  effect  in  the  night.  Another 
grand  and  interesting  sight  are  the  fires  on  the 
tops  of  the  largest  living  trees  flaming  above  the 


810  OUR  NATIONAL  PARES 

green  branches  at  a  height  of  perhaps  two  hun- 
dred feet,  entirely  cut  off  from  the  ground-fires, 
and  looking  like  signal  beacons  on  watch  towers. 
From  one  standpoint  I  sometimes  saw  a  dozen  or 
more,  those  in  the  distance  looking  like  great 
stars  above  the  forest  roof.  At  first  I  could  not 
imagine  how  these  Sequoia  lamps  were  lighted, 
but  the  very  first  night,  strolling  about  waiting 
and  watching,  I  saw  the  thing  done  again  and 
again.  The  thick,  fibrous  bark  of  old  trees  is 
divided  by  deep,  nearly  continuous  furrows,  the 
sides  of  which  are  bearded  with  the  bristling  ends 
of  fibres  broken  by  the  growth  swelling  of  the 
trunk,  and  when  the  fire  comes  creeping  around 
the  feet  of  the  trees,  it  runs  up  these  bristly  fur- 
rows in  lovely  pale  blue  quivering,  bickering  rills 
of  flame  with  a  low,  earnest  whispering  sound  to 
the  lightning-shattered  top  of  the  trunk,  which, 
in  the  dry  Indian  summer,  with  perhaps  leaves 
and  twigs  and  squirrel-gnawed  cone-scales  and 
seed-wings  lodged  in  it,  is  readily  ignited.  These 
lamp-lighting  rills,  the  most  beautiful  fire  streams 
I  ever  saw,  last  only  a  minute  or  two,  but  the  big 
lamps  burn  with  varying  brightness  for  days  and 
weeks,  throwing  off  sparks  like  the  spray  of  a 
fountain,  while  ever  and  anon  a  shower  of  red 
coals  comes  sifting  down  through  the  branches, 
followed  at  times  with  startling  effect  by  a  big 
burned-off  chunk  weighing  perhaps  half  a  ton. 
The  immense  bonfires  where  fifty  or  a  hundred 


THE   SEQUOIA  311 

cords  of  peeled,  split,  smashed  wood  has  been 
piled  around  some  old  giant  by  a  single  stroke  of 
lightning  is  another  grand  sight  in  the  night. 
The  light  is  so  great  I  found  I  could  read  com- 
mon print  three  hundred  yards  from  them, 
and  the  illumination  of  the  circle  of  onlooking 
trees  is  indescribably  impressive.  Other  big  fires, 
roaring  and  booming  like  waterfalls,  were  blaz- 
ing on  the  upper  sides  of  trees  on  hillslopes, 
against  which  limbs  broken  off  by  heavy  snow 
had  rolled,  while  branches  high  overhead,  tossed 
and  shaken  by  the  ascending  air  current,  seemed 
to  be  writhing  in  pain.  Perhaps  the  most  start- 
ling phenomenon  of  all  was  the  quick  death  of 
childlike  Sequoias  only  a  century  or  two  of  age. 
In  the  midst  of  the  other  comparatively  slow  and 
steady  fire  work  one  of  these  tall,  beautiful  sap- 
lings, leafy  and  branchy,  would  be  seen  blazing 
up  suddenly,  all  in  one  heaving,  booming,  pas- 
sionate flame  reaching  from  the  ground  to  the 
top  of  the  tree  and  fifty  to  a  hundred  feet  or 
more  above  it,  with  a  smoke  column  bending  for- 
ward and  streaming  away  on  the  upper,  free- 
flowing  wind.  To  burn  these  green  trees  a 
strong  fire  of  dry  wood  beneath  them  is  required, 
to  send  up  a  current  of  air  hot  enough  to  distill 
inflammable  gases  from  the  leaves  and  sprays ; 
then  instead  of  the  lower  limbs  gradually  catch- 
ing fire  and  igniting  the  next  and  next  in  succes- 
sion, the  whole  tree  seems  to  explode  almost  simul- 


312  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

taneously,  and  with  awful  roaring  and  throbbing 
a  round,  tapering  flame  shoots  up  two  or  three 
hundred  feet,  and  in  a  second  or  two  is  quenched, 
leaving  the  green  spire  a  black,  dead  mast,  bris- 
tled and  roughened  with  down-curling  boughs. 
Nearly  all  the  trees  that  have  been  burned 
down  are  lying  with  their  heads  uphill,  because 
they  are  burned  far  more  deeply  on  the  upper 
side,  on  account  of  broken  limbs  rolling  down 
against  them  to  make  hot  fires,  while  only  leaves 
and  twigs  accumulate  on  the  lower  side  and 
are  quickly  consumed  without  injury  to  the  tree. 
But  green,  resinless  Sequoia  wood  burns  very 
slowly,  and  many  successive  fires  are  required  to 
burn  down  a  large  tree.  Fires  can  run  only  at 
intervals  of  several  years,  and  when  the  ordinary 
amount  of  firewood  that  has  rolled  against  the 
gigantic  trunk  is  consumed,  only  a  shallow  scar 
is  made,  which  is  slowly  deepened  by  recurring 
fires  until  far  beyond  the  centre  of  gravity,  and 
when  at  last  the  tree  falls,  it  of  course  falls  uphill. 
The  healing  folds  of  wood  layers  on  some  of  the 
deeply  burned  trees  show  that  centuries  have 
elapsed  since  the  last  wounds  were  made. 

When  a  great  Sequoia  falls,  its  head  is  smashed 
into  fragments  about  as  small  as  those  made  by 
lightning,  which  are  mostly  devoured  by  the  first 
running,  hunting  fire  that  finds  them,  while  the 
trunk  is  slowly  wasted  away  by  centuries  of  fire 
and  weather.  One  of  the  most  interesting  fire 


THE  SEQUOIA  313 

actions  on  the  trunk  is  the  boring  of  those  great 
tunnel-like  hollows  through  which  horsemen  may 
gallop.  All  of  these  famous  hollows  are  burned 
out  of  the  solid  wood,  for  no  Sequoia  is  ever 
hollowed  by  decay.  When  the  tree  falls  the  brash 
trunk  is  often  broken  straight  across  into  sections 
as  if  sawed ;  into  these  joints  the  fire  creeps, 
and,  on  account  of  the  great  size  of  the  broken 
ends,  burns  for  weeks  or  even  months  without 
being  much  influenced  by  the  weather.  After 
the  great  glowing  ends  fronting  each  other  have 
burned  so  far  apart  that  their  rims  cease  to  burn, 
the  fire  continues  to  work  on  in  the  centres,  and 
the  ends  become  deeply  concave.  Then  heat  be- 
ing radiated  from  side  to  side,  the  burning  goes 
on  in  each  section  of  the  trunk  independent  of 
the  other,  until  the  diameter  of  the  bore  is  so 
great  that  the  heat  radiated  across  from  side  to 
side  is  not  sufficient  to  keep  them  burning.  It 
appears,  therefore,  that  only  very  large  trees  can 
receive  the  fire-auger  and  have  any  shell  rim  left. 
Fire  attacks  the  large  trees  only  at  the  ground, 
consuming  the  fallen  leaves  and  humus  at  their 
feet,  doing  them  but  little  harm  unless  consider- 
able quantities  of  fallen  limbs  happen  to  be  piled 
about  them,  their  thick  mail  of  spongy,  unpitchy, 
almost  unburnable  bark  affording  strong  protec- 
tion. Therefore  the  oldest  and  most  perfect 
unscarred  trees  are  found  on  ground  that  is 
nearly  level,  while  those  growing  on  hillsides, 


314  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

against  which  falling  branches  roll,  are  always 
deeply  scarred  on  the  upper  side,  and  as  we  have 
seen  are  sometimes  burned  down.  The  saddest 
thing  of  all  was  to  see  the  hopeful  seedlings, 
many  of  them  crinkled  and  bent  with  the  pres- 
sure of  winter  snow,  yet  bravely  aspiring  at  the 
top,  helplessly  perishing,  and  young  trees,  per- 
fect spires  of  verdure  and  naturally  immortal, 
suddenly  changed  to  dead  masts.  Yet  the  sun 
looked  cheerily  down  the  openings  in  the  forest 
roof,  turning  the  black  smoke  to  a  beautiful 
brown,  as  if  all  was  for  the  best. 

Beneath  the  smoke-clouds  of  the  suffering 
forest  we  again  pushed  southward,  descending  a 
side-gorge  of  the  East  Fork  canon  and  climbing 
another  into  new  forests  and  groves  not  a  whit 
less  noble.  Brownie,  the  meanwhile,  had  been 
resting,  while  I  was  weary  and  sleepy  with  almost 
ceaseless  wanderings,  giving  only  an  hour  or  two 
each  night  or  day  to  sleep  in  my  log  home. 
Way-making  here  seemed  to  become  more  and 
more  difficult,  "  impossible,"  in  common  phrase, 
for  four-legged  travelers.  Two  or  three  miles 
was  all  the  day's  work  as  far  as  distance  was  con- 
cerned. Nevertheless,  just  before  sundown  we 
found  a  charming  camp  ground  with  plenty  of 
grass,  and  a  forest  to  study  that  had  felt  no  fire 
for  many  a  year.  The  camp  hollow  was  evi- 
dently a  favorite  home  of  bears.  On  many  of 
the  trees,  at  a  height  of  six  or  eight  feet,  their 


THE  SEQUOIA  315 

autographs  were  inscribed  in  strong,  free,  flow- 
ing strokes  on  the  soft  bark  where  they  had  stood 
up  like  cats  to  stretch  their  limbs.  Using  both 
hands,  every  claw  a  pen,  the  handsome  curved 
lines  of  their  writing  take  the  form  of  remark- 
ably regular  interlacing  pointed  arches,  produ- 
cing a  truly  ornamental  effect.  I  looked  and 
listened,  half  expecting  to  see  some  of  the  writers 
alarmed  and  withdrawing  from  the  unwonted 
disturbance.  Brownie  also  looked  and  listened, 
for  mules  fear  bears  instinctively  and  have  a  very 
keen  nose  for  them.  When  I  turned  him  loose, 
instead  of  going  to  the  best  grass,  he  kept 
cautiously  near  the  camp-fire  for  protection,  but 
was  careful  not  to  step  on  me.  The  great  starry 
night  passed  away  in  deep  peace  and  the  rosy 
morning  sunbeams  were  searching  the  grove  ere 
I  awoke  from  a  long,  blessed  sleep. 

The  breadth  of  the  Sequoia  belt  here  is  about 
the  same  as  on  the  north  side  of  the  river,  ex- 
tending, rather  thin  and  scattered  in  some  places, 
among  the  noble  pines  from  near  the  main  forest 
belt  of  the  range  well  back  towards  the  frosty 
peaks,  where  most  of  the  trees  are  growing  on 
moraines  but  little  changed  as  yet. 

Two  days'  scramble  above  Bear  Hollow  I  en- 
joyed an  interesting  interview  with  deer.  Soon 
after  sunrise  a  little  company  of  four  came  to  my 
camp  in  a  wild  garden  imbedded  in  chaparral, 
and  after  much  cautious  observation  quietly 


316  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

began  to  eat  breakfast  with  me.  Keeping  per- 
fectly still  I  soon  had  their  confidence,  and  they 
came  so  near  I  found  no  difficulty,  while  admir- 
ing their  graceful  manners  and  gestures,  in 
determining  what  plants  they  were  eating,  thus 
gaining  a  far  finer  knowledge  and  sympathy 
than  comes  by  killing  and  hunting. 

Indian  summer  gold  with  scarce  a  whisper  of 
winter  in  it  was  painting  the  glad  wilderness  in 
richer  and  yet  richer  colors  as  we  scrambled 
across  the  South  canon  into  the  basin  of  the 
Tule.  Here  the  Big  Tree  forests  are  still  more 
extensive,  and  furnished  abundance  of  work  in 
tracing  boundaries  and  gloriously  crowned  ridges 
up  and  down,  back  and  forth,  exploring,  study- 
ing, admiring,  while  the  great  measureless  day? 
passed  on  and  away  uncounted.  But  in  the 
calm  of  the  camp-fire  the  end  of  the  season 
seemed  near.  Brownie  too  often  brought  snow- 
storms to  mind.  He  became  doubly  jaded, 
though  I  never  rode  him,  and  always  left  him  in 
camp  to  feed  and  rest  while  I  explored.  The  in- 
vincible bread  business  also  troubled  me  again ; 
the  last  mealy  crumbs  were  consumed,  and  grass 
was  becoming  scarce  even  in  the  roughest  rock- 
piles,  naturally  inaccessible  to  sheep.  One  after- 
noon, as  I  gazed  over  the  rolling  bossy  Sequoia 
billows  stretching  interminably  southward,  seek- 
ing a  way  and  counting  how  far  I  might  go 
without  food,  a  rifle  shot  rang  out  sharp  and 


THE  SEQUOIA  317 

clear.  Marking  the  direction  I  pushed  gladly  on, 
hoping  to  find  some  hunter  who  could  spare  a 
little  food.  Within  a  few  hundred  rods  I  struck 
the  track  of  a  shod  horse,  which  led  to  the  camp 
of  two  Indian  shepherds.  One  of  them  was 
cooking  supper  when  I  arrived.  Glancing  curi- 
ously at  me  he  saw  that  I  was  hungry,  and  gave 
me  some  mutton  and  bread,  and  said  encour- 
agingly as  he  pointed  to  the  west, "  Putty  soon 
Indian  come,  heap  speak  English."  Toward 
sundown  two  thousand  sheep  beneath  a  cloud  of 
dust  came  streaming  through  the  grand  Sequoias 
to  a  meadow  below  the  camp,  and  presently  the 
English-speaking  shepherd  came  in,  to  whom  I 
explained  my  wants  and  what  I  was  doing. 
Like  most  white  men,  he  could  not  conceive  how 
anything  other  than  gold  could  be  the  object 
of  such  rambles  as  mine,  and  asked  repeatedly 
whether  I  had  discovered  any  mines.  I  tried  to 
make  him  talk  about  trees  and  the  wild  animals, 
but  unfortunately  he  proved  to  be  a  tame  Indian 
from  the  Tule  Reservation,  had  been  to  school, 
claimed  to  be  civilized,  and  spoke  contemptuously 
of  "  wild  Indians,"  and  so  of  course  his  inherited 
instincts  were  blurred  or  lost.  The  Big  Trees, 
he  said,  grew  far  south,  for  he  had  seen  them  in 
crossing  the  mountains  from  Porterville  to  Lone 
Pine.  In  the  morning  he  kindly  gave  me  a 
few  pounds  of  flour,  and  assured  me  that  I  would 
get  plenty  more  at  a  sawmill  on  the  South  Fork 


318  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

if  I  reached  it  before  it  was  shut  down  for  the 
season. 

Of  all  the  Tule  basin  forest  the  section  on  the 
North  Pork  seemed  the  finest,  surpassing,  I  think, 
even  the  Giant  Forest  of  the  Kaweah.  South- 
ward from  here,  though  the  width  and  general 
continuity  of  the  belt  is  well  sustained,  I  thought 
I  could  detect  a  slight  falling  off  in  the  height 
of  the  trees  and  in  closeness  of  growth.  All  the 
basin  was  swept  by  swarms  of  hoofed  locusts, 
the  southern  part  over  and  over  again,  until  not 
a  leaf  within  reach  was  left  on  the  wettest  bogs, 
the  outer  edges  of  the  thorniest  chaparral  beds, 
or  even  on  the  young  conifers,  which,  unless 
under  the  stress  of  dire  famine,  sheep  never 
touch.  Of  course  Brownie  suffered,  though  I 
made  diligent  search  for  grassy  sheep-proof  spots. 
Turning  him  loose  one  evening  on  the  side  of  a 
carex  bog,  he  dolefully  prospected  the  desolate 
neighborhood  without  finding  anything  that  even 
a  starving  mule  could  eat.  Then,  utterly  dis- 
couraged, he  stole  up  behind  me  while  I  was  bent 
over  on  my  knees  making  a  fire  for  tea,  and  in 
a  pitiful  mixture  of  bray  and  neigh,  begged  for 
help.  It  was  a  mighty  touching  prayer,  and  I 
answered  it  as  well  as  I  could  with  half  of  what 
was  left  of  a  cake  made  from  the  last  of  the 
flour  given  me  by  the  Indians,  hastily  passing  it 
over  my  shoulder,  and  saying,  "  Yes,  poor  fellow, 
I  know,  but  soon  you  '11  have  plenty.  To-mor- 


THE  SEQUOIA  319 

row  down  we  go  to  alfalfa  and  barley/'  speaking 
to  him  as  if  he  were  human,  as  through  stress 
of  trouble  plainly  he  was.  After  eating  his  por- 
tion of  bread  he  seemed  content,  for  he  said  no 
more,  but  patiently  turned  away  to  gnaw  leaf- 
less ceanothus  stubs.  Such  clinging,  confiding 
dependence  after  all  our  scrambles  and  adven- 
tures together  was  very  touching,  and  I  felt  con- 
science-stricken for  having  led  him  so  far  in  so 
rough  and  desolate  a  country.  "  Man,"  says 
Lord  Bacon,  "  is  the  god  of  the  dog."  So,  also, 
he  is  of  the  mule  and  many  other  dependent  fel- 
low mortals. 

Next  morning  I  turned  westward,  determined 
to  force  a  way  straight  to  pasture,  letting  Se- 
quoia wait.  Fortunately  ere  we  had  struggled 
down  through  half  a  mile  of  chaparral  we  heard  a 
mill  whistle,  for  which  we  gladly  made  a  bee 
line.  At  the  sawmill  we  both  got  a  good  meal, 
then  taking  the  dusty  lumber  road  pursued  our 
way  to  the  lowlands.  The  nearest  good  pasture 
I  counted  might  be  thirty  or  forty  miles  away. 
But  scarcely  had  we  gone  ten  when  I  noticed  a 
little  log  cabin  a  hundred  yards  or  so  back  from 
the  road,  and  a  tall  man  straight  as  a  pine 
standing  in  front  of  it  observing  us  as  we  came 
plodding  down  through  the  dust.  Seeing  no  sign 
of  grass  or  hay,  I  was  going  past  without  stopping, 
when  he  shouted,  "  Travelin'  ?  "  Then  drawing 
nearer,  "  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  I  did  n't 


320  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS. 

notice  you  go  up."  I  replied  I  had  come  through 
the  woods  from  the  north,  looking  at  the  trees. 
"  Oh,  then,  you  must  be  John  Muir.  Halt, 
you're  tired;  come  and  rest  and  I'll  cook  for 
you."  Then  I  explained  that  I  was  tracing  the 
Sequoia  belt,  that  on  account  of  sheep  my  mule 
was  starving,  and  therefore  must  push  on  to  the 
lowlands.  "  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  that  corral  over 
there  is  full  of  hay  and  grain.  Turn  your  mule 
into  it.  I  don't  own  it,  but  the  fellow  who  does 
is  hauling  lumber,  and  it  will  be  all  right.  He 's 
a  white  man.  Come  and  rest.  How  tired  you 
must  be  !  The  Big  Trees  don't  go  much  farther 
south,  nohow.  I  know  the  country  up  there,  have 
hunted  all  over  it.  Come  and  rest,  and  let  your 
little  doggone  rat  of  a  mule  rest.  How  in  heavens 
did  you  get  him  across  the  canons  —  roll  him  ?  or 
carry  him  ?  He  's  poor,  but  he  '11  get  fat,  and 
I  '11  give  you  a  horse  and  go  with  you  up  the 
mountains,  and  while  you  're  looking  at  the  trees 
I  '11  go  hunting.  It  will  be  a  short  job,  for  the 
end  of  the  Big  Trees  is  not  far."  Of  course  I 
stopped.  No  true  invitation  is  ever  declined. 
He  had  been  hungry  and  tired  himself  many  a 
time  in  the  Kocky  Mountains  as  well  as  in  the 
Sierra.  Now  he  owned  a  band  of  cattle  and 
lived  alone.  His  cabin  was  about  eight  by  ten 
feet,  the  door  at  one  end,  a  fireplace  at  the  other, 
and  a  bed  on  one  side  fastened  to  the  logs. 
Leading  me  in  without  a  word  of  mean  apology, 


THE   SEQUOIA  321 

he  made  me  lie  down  on  the  bed,  then  reached 
under  it,  brought  forth  a  sack  of  apples  and  ad- 
vised me  to  keep  "  chawing  "  at  them  until  he 
got  supper  ready.  Finer,  braver  hospitality  I 
never  found  in  all  this  good  world  so  often 
called  selfish. 

Next  day  with  hearty,  easy  alacrity  the  moun- 
taineer procured  horses,  prepared  and  packed  pro- 
visions, and  got  everything  ready  for  an  early 
start  the  following  morning.  Well  mounted, 
we  pushed  rapidly  up  the  South  Fork  of  the 
river  and  soon  after  noon  were  among  the  giants 
once  more.  On  the  divide  between  the  Tule 
and  Deer  Creek  a  central  camp  was  made,  and 
the  mountaineer  spent  his  time  in  deer-hunting, 
while  with  provisions  for  two  or  three  days  I  ex- 
plored the  woods,  and  in  accordance  with  what  I 
had  been  told  soon  reached  the  southern  extrem- 
ity of  the  belt  on  the  South  Fork  of  Deer  Creek. 
To  make  sure,  I  searched  the  woods  a  consider- 
able distance  south  of  the  last  Deer  Creek  grove, 
passed  over  into  the  basin  of  the  Kern,  and 
climbed  several  high  points  commanding  extensive 
views  over  the  sugar-pine  woods,  without  seeing  a 
single  Sequoia  crown  in  all  the  wide  expanse  to 
the  southward.  On  the  way  back  to  camp,  how- 
ever, I  was  greatly  interested  in  a  grove  I  discov- 
ered on  the  east  side  of  the  Kern  River  divide, 
opposite  the  North  Fork  of  Deer  Creek.  The 
height  of  the  pass  where  the  species  crossed  over 


322  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

is  about  7000  feet,  and  I  heard  of  still  another 
grove  whose  waters  drain  into  the  upper  Kern 
opposite  the  Middle  Fork  of  the  Tule. 

It  appears,  therefore,  that  though  the  Sequoia 
belt  is  two  hundred  and  sixty  miles  long,  most  of 
the  trees  are  on  a  section  to  the  south  of  Kings 
River  only  about  seventy  miles  in  length.  But 
though  the  area  occupied  by  the  species  increases 
so  much  to  the  southward,  there  is  but  little 
difference  in  the  size  of  the  trees.  A  diameter 
of  twenty  feet  and  height  of  two  hundred  and 
seventy-five  is  perhaps  about  the  average  for 
anything  like  mature  and  favorably  situated 
trees.  Specimens  twenty-five  feet  in  diameter 
are  not  rare,  and  a  good  many  approach  a  height 
of  three  hundred  feet.  Occasionally  one  meets 
a  specimen  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  and  rarely  one 
that  is  larger.  The  majestic  stump  on  Kings 
River  is  the  largest  I  saw  and  measured  on  the 
entire  trip.  Careful  search  around  the  bound- 
aries of  the  forests  and  groves  and  in  the  gaps 
of  the  belt  failed  to  discover  any  trace  of  the 
former  existence  of  the  species  beyond  its  present 
limits.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  be  slightly 
extending  its  boundaries ;  for  the  outstanding 
stragglers,  occasionally  met  a  mile  or  two  from 
the  main  bodies,  are  young  instead  of  old  monu- 
mental trees.  Ancient  ruins  and  the  ditches 
and  root-bowls  the  big  trunks  make  in  falling 
were  found  in  all  the  groves,  but  none  outside 


THE  SEQUOIA  323 

of  them.  We  may  therefore  conclude  that  the 
area  covered  by  the  species  has  not  been  dimin- 
ished during  the  last  eight  or  ten  thousand 
years,  and  probably  not  at  all  in  post-glacial 
times.  For  admitting  that  upon  those  areas 
supposed  to  have  been  once  covered  by  Sequoia 
every  tree  may  have  fallen,  and  that  fire  and  the 
weather  had  left  not  a  vestige  of  them,  many 
of  the  ditches  made  by  the  fall  of  the  ponder- 
ous trunks,  weighing  five  hundred  to  nearly  a 
thousand  tons,  and  the  bowls  made  by  their  up- 
turned roots  would  remain  visible  for  thousands 
of  years  after  the  last  remnants  of  the  trees  had 
vanished.  Some  of  these  records  would  doubt- 
less be  effaced  in  a  comparatively  short  time  by 
the  inwashing  of  sediments,  but  no  inconsider- 
able part  of  them  would  remain  enduringly  en- 
graved on  flat  ridge  tops,  almost  wholly  free 
from  such  action. 

In  the  northern  groves,  the  only  ones  that  at 
first  came  under  the  observation  of  students,  there 
are  but  few  seedlings  and  young  trees  to  take  the 
places  of  the  old  ones.  Therefore  the  species 
was  regarded  as  doomed  to  speedy  extinction,  as 
being  only  an  expiring  remnant  vanquished  in 
the  so-called  struggle  for  life,  and  shoved  into 
its  last  strongholds  in  moist  glens  where  con- 
ditions are  exceptionally  favorable.  But  the 
majestic  continuous  forests  of  the  south  end  of 
the  belt  create  a  very  different  impression.  Here, 


824  OUR  NATIONAL  PAKKS 

as  we  have  seen,  no  tree  in  the  forest  is  more 
enduringly  established.  Nevertheless  it  is  often- 
times vaguely  said  that  the  Sierra  climate  is 
drying  out,  and  that  this  oncoming,  constantly 
increasing  drought  will  of  itself  surely  extinguish 
King  Sequoia,  though  sections  of  wood-rings 
show  that  there  has  been  no  appreciable  change 
of  climate  during  the  last  forty  centuries.  Fur- 
thermore, that  Sequoia  can  grow  and  is  growing 
on  as  dry  ground  as  any  of  its  neighbors  or  rivals, 
we  have  seen  proved  over  and  over  again.  "  Why, 
then,"  it  will  be  asked,  "  are  the  Big  Tree  groves 
always  found  on  well-watered  spots?"  Simply 
because  Big  Trees  give  rise  to  streams.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  the  water  is  the  cause  of 
the  groves  being  there.  On  the  contrary,  the 
groves  are  the  cause  of  the  water  being  there. 
The  roots  of  this  immense  tree  fill  the  ground, 
forming  a  sponge  which  hoards  the  bounty  of  the 
clouds  and  sends  it  forth  in  clear  perennial 
streams  instead  of  allowing  it  to  rush  headlong 
in  short-lived  destructive  floods.  Evaporation  is 
also  checked,  and  the  air  kept  still  in  the  shady 
Sequoia  depths,  while  thirsty  robber  winds  are 
shut  out. 

Since,  then,  it  appears  that  Sequoia  can  and 
does  grow  on  as  dry  ground  as  its  neighbors  and 
that  the  greater  moisture  found  with  it  is  an 
effect  rather  than  a  cause  of  its  presence,  the 
notions  as  to  the  former  greater  extension  of 


THE  SEQUOIA  325 

the  species  and  its  near  approach  to  extinction, 
based  on  its  supposed  dependence  on  greater 
moisture,  are  seen  to  be  erroneous.  Indeed,  all 
my  observations  go  to  show  that  in  case  of  pro- 
longed drought  the  sugar  pines  and  firs  would 
die  before  Sequoia.  Again,  if  the  restricted  and 
irregular  distribution  of  the  species  be  interpreted 
as  the  result  of  the  desiccation  of  the  range, 
then,  instead  of  increasing  in  individuals  toward 
the  south,  where  the  rainfall  is  less,  it  should 
diminish. 

If,  then,  its  peculiar  distribution  has  not  been 
governed  by  superior  conditions  of  soil  and 
moisture,  by  what  has  it  been  governed?  Sev- 
eral years  before  I  made  this  trip,  I  noticed  that 
the  northern  groves  were  located  on  those  parts 
of  the  Sierra  soil-belt  that  were  first  laid  bare 
and  opened  to  preemption  when  the  ice-sheet 
began  to  break  up  into  individual  glaciers.  And 
when  I  was  examining  the  basin  of  the  San 
Joaquin  and  trying  to  account  for  the  absence  of 
Sequoia,  when  every  condition  seemed  favorable 
for  its  growth,  it  occurred  to  me  that  this  remark- 
able gap  in  the  belt  is  located  in  the  channel  of 
the  great  ancient  glacier  of  the  San  Joaquin  and 
Kings  River  basins,  which  poured  its  frozen 
floods  to  the  plain,  fed  by  the  snows  that  fell  on 
more  than  fifty  miles  of  the  Summit  peaks  of  the 
range.  Constantly  brooding  on  the  question,  I 
next  perceived  that  the  great  gap  in  the  belt  to 


326  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  northward,  forty  miles  wide,  between  the 
Stanislaus  and  Tuolumne  groves,  occurs  in  the 
channel  of  the  great  Stanislaus  and  Tuolumne 
glacier,  and  that  the  smaller  gap  between  the 
Merced  and  Mariposa  groves  occurs  in  the  chan- 
nel of  the  smaller  Merced  glacier.  The  wider 
the  ancient  glacier,  the  wider  the  gap  in  the 
Sequoia  belt,  while  the  groves  and  forests  attain 
their  greatest  development  in  the  Kaweah  and 
Tule  River  basins,  just  where,  owing  to  topo- 
graphical conditions,  the  region  was  first  cleared 
and  warmed,  while  protected  from  the  main  ice- 
rivers,  that  flowed  past  to  right  and  left  down 
the  Kings  and  Kern  valleys.  In  general,  where 
the  ground  on  the  belt  was  first  cleared  of  ice, 
there  the  Sequoia  now  is,  and  where  at  the  same 
elevation  and  time  the  ancient  glaciers  lingered, 
there  the  Sequoia  is  not.  What  the  other  condi- 
tions may  have  been  which  enabled  the  Sequoia 
to  establish  itself  upon  these  oldest  and  warm- 
est parts  of  the  main  soil-belt  I  cannot  say.  I 
might  venture  to  state,  however,  that  since  the 
Sequoia  forests  present  a  more  and  more  ancient 
and  long  established  aspect  to  the  southward,  the 
species  was  probably  distributed  from  the  south 
toward  the  close  of  the  glacial  period,  before  the 
arrival  of  other  trees.  About  this  branch  of  the 
question,  however,  there  is  at  present  much  fog, 
but  the  general  relationship  we  have  pointed  out 
between  the  distribution  of  the  Big  Tree  and  the 


THE  SEQUOIA  327 

ancient  glacial  system  is  clear.  And  when  we 
bear  in  mind  that  all  the  existing  forests  of  the 
Sierra  are  growing  on  comparatively  fresh  mo- 
raine soil,  and  that  the  range  itself  has  been 
recently  sculptured  and  brought  to  light  from 
beneath  the  ice -mantle  of  the  glacial  winter, 
then  many  lawless  mysteries  vanish,  and  harmo- 
nies take  their  places. 

But  notwithstanding  all  the  observed  phe- 
nomena bearing  on  the  post-glacial  history  of 
this  colossal  tree,  point  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
never  was  more  widely  distributed  on  the  Sierra 
since  the  close  of  the  glacial  epoch ;  that  its 
present  forests  are  scarcely  past  prime ;  if,  in- 
deed, they  have  reached  prime ;  that  the  post- 
glacial day  of  the  species  is  probably  not  half 
done ;  yet,  when  from  a  wider  outlook  the  vast 
antiquity  of  the  genus  is  considered,  and  its 
ancient  richness  in  species  and  individuals,  com- 
paring our  Sierra  giant  and  Sequoia  sempervi- 
rens  of  the  coast,  the  only  other  living  species, 
with  the  many  fossil  species  already  discovered, 
and  described  by  Heer  and  Lesquereux,  some  of 
which  flourished  over  large  areas  around  the 
Arctic  Circle,  and  in  Europe  and  our  own  terri- 
tories, during  tertiary  and  cretaceous  times,  — 
then,  indeed,  it  becomes  plain  that  our  two  sur- 
viving species,  restricted  to  narrow  belts  within 
the  limits  of  California,  are  mere  remnants  of 
the  genus  both  as  to  species  and  individuals,  and 


328  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

that  they  probably  are  verging  to  extinction. 
But  the  verge  of  a  period  beginning  in  cretaceous 
times  may  have  a  breadth  of  tens  of  thousands 
of  years,  not  to  mention  the  possible  existence  of 
conditions  calculated  to  multiply  and  reextend 
both  species  and  individuals.  No  unfavorable 
change  of  climate,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  no  disease, 
but  only  fire  and  the  axe  and  the  ravages  of 
flocks  and  herds  threaten  the  existence  of  these 
noblest  of  God's  trees.  In  Nature's  keeping 
they  are  safe,  but  through  man's  agency  de- 
struction is  making  rapid  progress,  while  in  the 
work  of  protection  only  a  beginning  has  been 
made.  The  Mariposa  Grove  belongs  to  and  is 
guarded  by  the  State ;  the  General  Grant  and 
Sequoia  National  Parks,  established  ten  years 
ago,  are  efficiently  guarded  by  a  troop  of  cavalry 
under  the  direction  of  the  Secretary  of  the  In- 
terior ;  so  also  are  the  small  Tuolumne  and  Mer- 
ced groves,  which  are  included  in  the  Yosemite 
National  Park,  while  a  few  scattered  patches  and 
fringes,  scarce  at  all  protected,  though  belonging 
to  the  national  government,  are  in  the  Sierra 
Forest  Reservation. 

Perhaps  more  than  half  of  all  the  Big  Trees 
have  been  sold^  and  are  now  in  the  hands  of 
speculators  and  mill  men.  Even  the  beautiful 
little  Calaveras  Grove  of  ninety  trees,  so  histori- 
cally interesting  from  its  being  the  first  dis- 
covered, is  now  owned,  together  with  the  much 


THE  SEQUOIA  329 

larger  South  or  Stanislaus  Grove,  by  a  lumber 
company. 

Far  the  largest  and  most  important  section 
of  protected  Big  Trees  is  in  the  grand  Sequoia 
National  Park,  now  easily  accessible  by  stage  from 
Visalia.  It  contains  seven  townships  and  ex- 
tends across  the  whole  breadth  of  the  magnificent 
Kaweah  basin.  But  large  as  it  is,  it  should  be 
made  much  larger.  Its  natural  eastern  boundary 
is  the  high  Sierra,  and  the  northern  and  southern 
boundaries,  the  Kings  and  Kern  rivers,  thus  in- 
cluding the  sublime  scenery  on  the  headwaters  of 
these  rivers  and  perhaps  nine  tenths  of  all  the 
Big  Trees  in  existence.  Private  claims  cut  and 
blotch  both  of  the  Sequoia  parks  as  well  as  all 
the  best  of  the  forests,  every  one  of  which  the 
government  should  gradually  extinguish  by  pur- 
chase, as  it  readily  may,  for  none  of  these  hold- 
ings are  of  much  value  to  their  owners.  Thus 
as  far  as  possible  the  grand  blunder  of  selling 
would  be  corrected.  The  value  of  these  forests 
in  storing  and  dispensing  the  bounty  of  the 
mountain  clouds  is  infinitely  greater  than  lumber 
or  sheep.  To  the  dwellers  of  the  plain,  depend- 
ent on  irrigation,  the  Big  Tree,  leaving  all  its 
higher  uses  out  of  the  count,  is  a  tree  of  life,  a 
never-failing  spring,  sending  living  water  to  the 
lowlands  all  through  the  hot,  rainless  summer. 
For  every  grove  cut  down  a  stream  is  dried  up. 
Therefore,  all  California  is  crying,  "Save  the 


330  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

trees  of  the  fountains,"  nor,  judging  by  the 
signs  of  the  times,  is  it  likely  that  the  cry  will 
cease  until  the  salvation  of  all  that  is  left  of 
Sequoia  gigantea  is  sure. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   AMERICAN   FORESTS 

THE  forests  of  America,  however  slighted  by 
man,  must  have  been  a  great  delight  to  God ; 
for  they  were  the  best  he  ever  planted.  The 
whole  continent  was  a  garden,  and  from  the  be- 
ginning it  seemed  to  be  favored  above  all  the 
other  wild  parks  and  gardens  of  the  globe.  To 
prepare  the  ground,  it  was  rolled  and  sifted  in 
seas  with  infinite  loving  deliberation  and  fore- 
thought, lifted  into  the  light,  submerged  and 
warmed  over  and  over  again,  pressed  and  crum- 
pled into  folds  and  ridges,  mountains,  and  hills, 
subsoiled  with  heaving  volcanic  fires,  ploughed 
and  ground  and  sculptured  into  scenery  and 
soil  with  glaciers  and  rivers,  —  every  feature 
growing  and  changing  from  beauty  to  beauty, 
higher  and  higher.  And  in  the  fullness  of  time 
it  was  planted  in  groves,  and  belts,  and  broad, 
exuberant,  mantling  forests,  with  the  largest, 
most  varied,  most  fruitful,  and  most  beautiful 
trees  in  the  world.  Bright  seas  made  its  border, 
with  wave  embroidery  and  icebergs ;  gray  des- 
erts were  outspread  in  the  middle  of  it,  mossy 


332  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tundras  on  the  north,  savannas  on  the  south, 
and  blooming  prairies  and  plains;  while  lakes 
and  rivers  shone  through  all  the  vast  forests  and 
openings,  and  happy  birds  and  beasts  gave 
delightful  animation.  Everywhere,  everywhere 
over  all  the  blessed  continent,  there  were  beauty 
and  melody  and  kindly,  wholesome,  f  oodf  ul  abun- 
dance. 

These  forests  were  composed  of  about  five 
hundred  species  of  trees,  all  of  them  in  some  way 
useful  to  man,  ranging  in  size  from  twenty-five 
feet  in  height  and  less  than  one  foot  in  dia- 
meter at  the  ground  to  four  hundred  feet  in 
height  and  more  than  twenty  feet  in  diameter, 
—  lordly  monarchs  proclaiming  the  gospel  of 
beauty  like  apostles.  For  many  a  century  after 
the  ice-ploughs  were  melted,  nature  fed  them  and 
dressed  them  every  day,  —  working  like  a  man,  a 
loving,  devoted,  painstaking  gardener ;  fingering 
every  leaf  and  flower  and  mossy  furrowed  bole ; 
bending,  trimming,  modeling,  balancing;  paint- 
ing them  with  the  loveliest  colors ;  bringing  over 
them  now  clouds  with  cooling  shadows  and 
showers,  now  sunshine ;  fanning  them  with  gentle 
winds  and  rustling  their  leaves ;  exercising  them 
in  every  fibre  with  storms,  and  pruning  them ; 
loading  them  with  flowers  and  fruit,  loading 
them  with  snow,  and  ever  making  them  more 
beautiful  as  the  years  rolled  by.  Wide-branch- 
ing oak  and  elm  in  endless  variety,  walnut  and 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  333 

maple,  chestnut  and  beech,  ilex  and  locust,  touch- 
ing limb  to  limb,  spread  a  leafy  translucent  can- 
opy along  the  coast  of  the  Atlantic  over  the 
wrinkled  folds  and  ridges  of  the  Alleghanies,  — 
a  green  billowy  sea  in  summer,  golden  and  purple 
in  autumn,  pearly  gray  like  a  steadfast  frozen 
mist  of  interlacing  branches  and  sprays  in  leaf- 
less, restful  winter. 

To  the  southward  stretched  dark,  level-topped 
cypresses  in  knobby,  tangled  swamps,  grassy 
savannas  in  the  midst  of  them  like  lakes  of  light, 
groves  of  gay,  sparkling  spice-trees,  magnolias 
and  palms,  glossy-leaved  and  blooming  and  shin- 
ing continually.  To  the  northward,  over  Maine 
and  Ottawa,  rose  hosts  of  spiry,  rosiny  ever- 
greens, —  white  pine  and  spruce,  hemlock  and 
cedar,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  laden  with  purple 
cones,  their  myriad  needles  sparkling  and  shim- 
mering, covering  hills  and  swamps,  rocky  head- 
lands and  domes,  ever  bravely  aspiring  and 
seeking  the  sky ;  the  ground  in  their  shade  now 
snow-clad  and  frozen,  now  mossy  and  flowery ; 
beaver  meadows  here  and  there,  full  of  lilies  and 
grass ;  lakes  gleaming  like  eyes,  and  a  silvery 
embroidery  of  rivers  and  creeks  watering  and 
brightening  all  the  vast  glad  wilderness. 

Thence  westward  were  oak  and  elm,  hickory 
and  tupelo,  gum  and  liriodendron,  sassafras 
and  ash,  linden  and  laurel,  spreading  on  ever 
wider  in  glorious  exuberance  over  the  great  fer- 


334  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tile  basin  of  the  Mississippi,  over  damp  level 
bottoms,  low  dimpling  hollows,  and  round  dot- 
ting hills,  embosoming  sunny  prairies  and  cheery 
park  openings,  half  sunshine,  half  shade ;  while 
a  dark  wilderness  of  pines  covered  the  region 
around  the  Great  Lakes.  Thence  still  west- 
ward swept  the  forests  to  right  and  left  around 
grassy  plains  and  deserts  a  thousand  miles  wide : 
irrepressible  hosts  of  spruce  and  pine,  aspen  and 
willow,  nut-pine  and  juniper,  cactus  and  yucca, 
caring  nothing  for  drought,  extending  undaunted 
from  mountain  to  mountain,  over  mesa  and 
desert,  to  join  the  darkening  multitudes  of 
pines  that  covered  the  high  Eocky  ranges  and  the 
glorious  forests  along  the  coast  of  the  moist  and 
balmy  Pacific,  where  new  species  of  pine,  giant 
cedars  and  spruces,  silver  firs  and  Sequoias,  kings 
of  their  race,  growing  close  together  like  grass 
in  a  meadow,  poised  their  brave  domes  and 
spires  in  the  sky,  three  hundred  feet  above  the 
ferns  and  the  lilies  that  enameled  the  ground ; 
towering  serene  through  the  long  centuries, 
preaching  God's  forestry  fresh  from  heaven. 

Here  the  forests  reached  their  highest  devel- 
opment. Hence  they  went  wavering  northward 
over  icy  Alaska,  brave  spruce  and  fir,  poplar  and 
birch,  by  the  coasts  and  the  rivers,  to  within 
sight  of  the  Arctic  Ocean.  American  forests ! 
the  glory  of  the  world !  Surveyed  thus  from 
the  east  to  the  west,  from  the  north  to  the  south, 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  335 

they  are  rich  beyond  thought,  immortal,  immea- 
surable, enough  and  to  spare  for  every  feeding, 
sheltering  beast  and  bird,  insect  and  son  of 
Adam ;  and  nobody  need  have  cared  had  there 
been  no  pines  in  Norway,  no  cedars  and  deodars 
on  Lebanon  and  the  Himalayas,  no  vine-clad 
selvas  in  the  basin  of  the  Amazon.  With  such 
variety,  harmony,  and  triumphant  exuberance, 
even  nature,  it  would  seem,  might  have  rested 
content  with  the  forests  of  North  America,  and 
planted  no  more. 

So  they  appeared  a  few  centuries  ago  when 
they  were  rejoicing  in  wildness.  The  Indians 
with  stone  axes  could  do  them  no  more  harm 
than  could  gnawing  beavers  and  browsing 
moose.  Even  the  fires  of  the  Indians  and  the 
fierce  shattering  lightning  seemed  to  work  to- 
gether only  for  good  in  clearing  spots  here  and 
there  for  smooth  garden  prairies,  and  openings 
for  sunflowers  seeking  the  light.  But  when  the 
steel  axe  of  the  white  man  rang  out  on  the 
startled  air  their  doom  was  sealed.  Every  tree 
heard  the  bodeful  sound,  and  pillars  of  smoke 
gave  the  sign  in  the  sky. 

I  suppose  we  need  not  go  mourning  the  buf- 
faloes. In  the  nature  of  things  they  had  to  give 
place  to  better  cattle,  though  the  change  might 
have  been  made  without  barbarous  wickedness. 
Likewise  many  of  nature's  five  hundred  kinds 
of  wild  trees  had  to  make  way  for  orchards 


S36  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  cornfields.  In  the  settlement  and  civiliza- 
tion of  the  country,  bread  more  than  timber  or 
beauty  was  wanted;  and  in  the  blindness  of 
hunger,  the  early  settlers,  claiming  Heaven  as 
their  guide,  regarded  God's  trees  as  only  a  larger 
kind  of  pernicious  weeds,  extremely  hard  to  get 
rid  of.  Accordingly,  with  no  eye  to  the  future, 
these  pious  destroyers  waged  interminable  forest 
wars ;  chips  flew  thick  and  fast ;  trees  in  their 
beauty  fell  crashing  by  millions,  smashed  to  confu- 
sion, and  the  smoke  of  their  burning  has  been  ris- 
ing to  heaven  more  than  two  hundred  years.  After 
the  Atlantic  coast  from  Maine  to  Georgia  had 
been  mostly  cleared  and  scorched  into  melan- 
choly ruins,  the  overflowing  multitude  of  bread 
and  money  seekers  poured  over  the  Alleghanies 
into  the  fertile  middle  West,  spreading  ruthless 
devastation  ever  wider  and  farther  over  the  rich 
valley  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  vast  shadowy 
pine  region  about  the  Great  Lakes.  Thence  still 
westward,  the  invading  horde  of  destroyers  called 
settlers  made  its  fiery  way  over  the  broad  Rocky 
Mountains,  felling  and  burning  more  fiercely 
than  ever,  until  at  last  it  has  reached  the  wild 
side  of  the  continent,  and  entered  the  last  of 
the  great  aboriginal  forests  on  the  shores  of  the 
Pacific. 

Surely,  then,  it  should  not  be  wondered  at 
that  lovers  of  their  country,  bewailing  its  bald- 
ness, are  now  crying  aloud,  "  Save  what  is  left  of 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  337 

the  forests !  "  Clearing  has  surely  now  gone  far 
enough ;  soon  timber  will  be  scarce,  and  not  a 
grove  will  be  left  to  rest  in  or  pray  in.  The 
remnant  protected  will  yield  plenty  of  timber,  a 
perennial  harvest  for  every  right  use,  without 
further  diminution  of  its  area,  and  will  continue 
to  cover  the  springs  of  the  rivers  that  rise  in  the 
mountains  and  give  irrigating  waters  to  the  dry 
valleys  at  their  feet,  prevent  wasting  floods  and 
be  a  blessing  to  everybody  forever. 

Every  other-  civilized  nation  in  the  world  has 
been  compelled  to  care  for  its  forests,  and  so 
must  we  if  waste  and  destruction  are  not  to  go  on 
to  the  bitter  end,  leaving  America  as  barren  as  Pal- 
estine or  Spain.  In  its  calmer  moments,  in  the 
midst  of  bewildering  hunger  and  war  and  rest- 
less over-industry,  Prussia  has  learned  that  the 
forest  plays  an  important  part  in  human  progress, 
and  that  the  advance  in  civilization  only  makes  it 
more  indispensable.  It  has,  therefore,  as  shown 
by  Mr.  Pinchot,  refused  to  deliver  its  forests  to 
more  or  less  speedy  destruction  by  permitting 
them  to  pass  into  private  ownership.  But  the 
state  woodlands  are  not  allowed  to  lie  idle.  On 
the  contrary,  they  are  made  to  produce  as  much 
timber  as  is  possible  without  spoiling  them.  In 
the  administration  of  its  forests,  the  state  right- 
eously considers  itself  bound  to  treat  them  as  a 
trust  for  the  nation  as  a  whole,  and  to  keep  in 
view  the  common  good  of  the  people  for  all  time* 


338  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

In  France  no  government  forests  have  been 
sold  since  1870.  On  the  other  hand,  about  one 
half  of  the  fifty  million  francs  spent  on  forestry 
has  been  given  to  engineering  works,  to  make 
the  replanting  of  denuded  areas  possible.  The 
disappearance  of  the  forests  in  the  first  place,  it 
is  claimed,  may  be  traced  in  most  cases  directly 
to  mountain  pasturage.  The  provisions  of  the 
Code  concerning  private  woodlands  are  substan- 
tially these :  no  private  owner  may  clear  his 
woodlands  without  giving  notice  to  the  govern- 
ment at  least  four  months  in  advance,  and  the 
forest  service  may  forbid  the  clearing  on  the 
following  grounds,  —  to  maintain  the  soil  on 
mountains,  to  defend  the  soil  against  erosion  and 
flooding  by  rivers  or  torrents,  to  insure  the  ex- 
istence of  springs  or  watercourses,  to  protect  the 
dunes  and  seashore,  etc.  A  proprietor  who  has 
cleared  his  forest  without  permission  is  subject  to 
heavy  fine,  and  in  addition  may  be  made  to  re- 
plant the  cleared  area. 

In  Switzerland,  after  many  laws  like  our  own 
had  been  found  wanting,  the  Swiss  forest  school 
was  established  in  1865,  and  soon  after  the  fed- 
eral forest  law  was  enacted,  which  is  binding 
over  nearly  two  thirds  of  the  country.  Under 
its  provisions,  the  cantons  must  appoint  and  pay 
the  number  of  suitably  educated  foresters  re- 
quired for  the  fulfillment  of  the  forest  law ;  and 
in  the  organization  of  a  normally  stocked  forest, 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  339 

the  object  of  first  importance  must  be  the  cut- 
ting each  year  of  an  amount  of  timber  equal  to 
the  total  annual  increase,  and  no  more. 

The  Russian  government  passed  a  law  in  1888, 
declaring  that  clearing  is  forbidden  in  protected 
forests,  and  is  allowed  in  others  "  only  when  its 
effects  will  not  be  to  disturb  the  suitable  rela- 
tions which  should  exist  between  forest  and  agri- 
cultural lands." 

Even  Japan  is  ahead  of  us  in  the  management  of 
her  forests.  They  cover  an  area  of  about  twenty- 
nine  million  acres.  The  feudal  lords  valued  the 
woodlands,,  and  enacted  vigorous  protective  laws ; 
and  when,  in  the  latest  civil  war,  the  Mikado  gov- 
ernment destroyed  the  feudal  system,  it  declared 
the  forests  that  had  belonged  to  the  feudal  lords  to 
be  the  property  of  the  state,  promulgated  a  forest 
law  binding  on  the  whole  kingdom,  and  founded 
a  school  of  forestry  in  Tokio.  The  forest  service 
does  not  rest  satisfied  with  the  present  proportion 
of  woodland,  but  looks  to  planting  the  best  forest 
trees  it  can  find  in  any  country,  if  likely  to  be 
useful  and  to  thrive  in  Japan. 

In  India  systematic  forest  management  was 
begun  about  forty  years  ago,  under  difficulties 
—  presented  by  the  character  of  the  country,  the 
prevalence  of  running  fires,  opposition  from  lum- 
bermen, settlers,  etc.  —  not  unlike  those  which 
confront  us  now.  Of  the  total  area  of  government 
forests,  perhaps  seventy  million  acres,  fifty-five 


340  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

million  acres  have  been  brought  under  the  con- 
trol of  the  forestry  department,  —  a  larger  area 
than  that  of  all  our  national  parks  and  reserva- 
tions. The  chief  aims  of  the  administration  are 
effective  protection  of  the  forests  from  fire,  an 
efficient  system  of  regeneration,  and  cheap  trans- 
portation of  the  forest  products ;  the  results  so 
far  have  been  most  beneficial  and  encouraging. 

It  seems,  therefore,  that  almost  every  civilized 
nation  can  give  us  a  lesson  on  the  management 
and  care  of  forests.  So  far  our  government  has 
done  nothing  effective  with  its  forests,  though 
the  best  in  the  world,  but  is  like  a  rich  and 
foolish  spendthrift  who  has  inherited  a  magnifi- 
cent estate  in  perfect  order,  and  then  has  left  his 
fields  and  meadows,  forests  and  parks,  to  be  sold 
and  plundered  and  wasted  at  will,  depending  on 
their  inexhaustible  abundance.  Now  it  is  plain 
that  the  forests  are  not  inexhaustible,  and  that 
quick  measures  must  be  taken  if  ruin  is  to  be 
avoided.  Year  by  year  the  remnant  is  growing 
smaller  before  the  axe  and  fire,  while  the  laws 
in  existence  provide  neither  for  the  protection 
of  the  timber  from  destruction  nor  for  its  use 
where  it  is  most  needed. 

As  is  shown  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Bowers,  formerly 
Inspector  of  the  Public  Land  Service,  the  foun- 
dation of  our  protective  policy,  which  has  never 
protected,  is  an  act  passed  March  1,  1817,  which 
authorized  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  to  reserve 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  341 

lands  producing  live-oak  and  cedar,  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  supplying  timber  for  the  navy  of  the 
United  States.  An  extension  of  this  law  by 
the  passage  of  the  act  of  March  2,  1831,  pro- 
vided that  if  any  person  should  cut  live-oak  or 
red  cedar  trees  or  other  timber  from  the  knds  of 
the  United  States  for  any  other  purpose  than  the 
construction  of  the  navy,  such  person  should  pay 
a  fine  not  less  than  triple  the  value  of  the  timber 
cut,  and  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding 
twelve  months.  Upon  this  old  law,  as  Mr.  Bowers 
points  out,  having  the  construction  of  a  wooden 
navy  in  view,  the  United  States  government  has 
to-day  chiefly  to  rely  in  protecting  its  timber 
throughout  the  arid  regions  of  the  West,  where 
none  of  the  naval  timber  which  the  law  had  in 
mind  is  to  be  found. 

By  the  act  of  June  3,  1878,  timber  can  be 
taken  from  public  lands  not  subject  to  entry  under 
any  existing  laws  except  for  minerals,  by  bona 
fide  residents  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  states  and 
territories  and  the  Dakotas.  Under  the  tim- 
ber and  stone  act,  of  the  same  date,  land  in  the 
Pacific  States  and  Nevada,  valuable  mainly  for 
timber,  and  unfit  for  cultivation  if  the  timber  is 
removed,  can  be  purchased  for  two  dollars  and 
a  half  an  acre,  under  certain  restrictions.  By 
the  act  of  March  3,  1875,  all  land-grant  and 
right-of-way  railroads  are  authorized  to  take  tim- 
ber from  the  public  lands  adjacent  to  their  lines 


342  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

for  construction  purposes ;  and  they  have  taken 
it  with  a  vengeance,  destroying  a  hundred  times 
more  than  they  have  used,  mostly  by  allowing 
fires  to  run  in  the  woods.  The  settlement  laws, 
under  which  a  settler  may  enter  lands  valuable  for 
timber  as  well  as  for  agriculture,  furnish  another 
means  of  obtaining  title  to  public  timber. 

With  the  exception  of  the  timber  culture  act, 
under  which,  in  consideration  of  planting  a  few 
acres  of  seedlings,  settlers  on  the  treeless  plains 
got  160  acres  each,  the  above  is  the  only  legisla- 
tion aiming  to  protect  and  promote  the  planting 
of  forests.  In  no  other  way  than  under  some 
one  of  these  laws  can  a  citizen  of  the  United 
States  make  any  use  of  the  public  forests.  To 
show  the  results  of  the  timber-planting  act,  it 
need  only  be  stated  that  of  the  thirty-eight  mil- 
lion acres  entered  under  it,  less  than  one  million 
acres  have  been  patented.  This  means  that  less 
than  fifty  thousand  acres  have  been  planted  with 
stunted,  woebegone,  almost  hopeless  sprouts  of 
trees,  while  at  the  same  time  the  government  has 
allowed  millions  of  acres  of  the  grandest  forest 
trees  to  be  stolen  or  destroyed,  or  sold  for  nothing. 
Under  the  act  of  June  3,  1878,  settlers  in  Col- 
orado and  the  Territories  were  allowed  to  cut  tim- 
ber for  mining  and  educational  purposes  from 
mineral  land,  which  in  the  practical  West  means 
both  cutting  and  burning  anywhere  and  every- 
where, for  any  purpose,  on  any  sort  of  public  land. 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  343 

Thus,  the  prospector,  the  miner,  and  mining 
and  railroad  companies  are  allowed  by  law  to 
take  all  the  timber  they  like  for  their  mines  and 
roads,  and  the  forbidden  settler,  if  there  are  no 
mineral  lands  near  his  farm  or  stock-ranch,  or 
none  that  he  knows  of,  can  hardly  be  expected  to 
forbear  taking  what  he  needs  wherever  he  can 
find  it.  Timber  is  as  necessary  as  bread,  and  no 
scheme  of  management  failing  to  recognize  and 
properly  provide  for  this  want  can  possibly  be 
maintained.  In  any  case,  it  will  be  hard  to  teach 
the  pioneers  that  it  is  wrong  to  steal  government 
timber.  Taking  from  the  government  is  with 
them  the  same  as  taking  from  nature,  and  their 
consciences  flinch  no  more  in  cutting  timber  from 
the  wild  forests  than  in  drawing  water  from  a 
lake  or  river.  As  for  reservation  and  protec- 
tion of  forests,  it  seems  as  silly  and  needless  to 
them  as  protection  and  reservation  of  the  ocean 
would  be,  both  appearing  to  be  boundless  and 
inexhaustible. 

The  special  land  agents  employed  by  the  Gen- 
eral Land  Office  to  protect  the  public  domain 
from  timber  depredations  are  supposed  to  collect 
testimony  to  sustain  prosecution  and  to  superin- 
tend such  prosecution  on  behalf  of  the  gov- 
ernment, which  is  represented  by  the  district 
attorneys.  But  timber  thieves  of  the  Western 
class  are  seldom  convicted,  for  the  good  reason 
that  most  of  the  jurors  who  try  such  cases  are 


344  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

themselves  as  guilty  as  those  on  trial.  The  effect 
of  the  present  confused,  discriminating,  and  un- 
just system  has  been  to  place  almost  the  whole 
population  in  opposition  to  the  government ;  and 
as  conclusive  of  its  futility,  as  shown  by  Mr. 
Bowers,  we  need  only  state  that  during  the  seven 
years  from  1881  to  1887  inclusive,  the  value  of 
the  timber  reported  stolen  from  the  government 
lands  was  $36,719,935,  and  the  amount  recov- 
ered was  $478,073,  while  the  cost  of  the  ser- 
vices of  special  agents  alone  was  $455,000,  to 
which  must  be  added  the  expense  of  the  trials. 
Thus  for  nearly  thirty-seven  million  dollars'  worth 
of  timber  the  government  got  less  than  nothing ; 
and  the  value  of  that  consumed  by  running  fires 
during  the  same  period,  without  benefit  even  to 
thieves,  was  probably  over  two  hundred  millions 
of  dollars.  Land  commissioners  and  Secretaries 
of  the  Interior  have  repeatedly  called  attention 
to  this  ruinous  state  of  affairs,  and  asked  Con- 
gress to  enact  the  requisite  legislation  for  rea- 
sonable reform.  But,  busied  with  tariffs,  etc., 
Congress  has  given  no  heed  to  these  or  other 
appeals,  and  our  forests,  the  most  valuable  and 
the  most  destructible  of  all  the  natural  resources 
of  the  country,  are  being  robbed  and  burned 
more  rapidly  than  ever.  The  annual  appropria- 
tion for  so-called  "  protection  service  "  is  hardly 
sufficient  to  keep  twenty-five  timber  agents  in 
the  field,  and  as  far  as  any  efficient  protection 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  345 

of  timber  is  concerned  these  agents  themselves 
might  as  well  be  timber.1 

That  a  change  from  robbery  and  ruin  to  a  per- 
manent rational  policy  is  urgently  needed  nobody 
with  the  slightest  knowledge  of  American  forests 
will  deny.  In  the  East  and  along  the  northern 
Pacific  coast,  where  the  rainfall  is  abundant, 
comparatively  few  care  keenly  what  becomes  of 
the  trees  so  long  as  fuel  and  lumber  are  not  no- 
ticeably dear.  But  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and 
California  and  Arizona,  where  the  forests  are  in- 
flammable, and  where  the  fertility  of  the  low- 
lands depends  upon  irrigation,  public  opinion  is 
growing  stronger  every  year  in  favor  of  perma- 
nent protecton  by  the  federal  government  of  all 
the  forests  that  cover  the  sources  of  the  streams. 
Even  lumbermen  in  these  regions,  long  accus- 
tomed to  steal,  are  now  willing  and  anxious  to  buy 
lumber  for  their  mills  under  cover  of  law :  some 
possibly  from  a  late  second  growth  of  honesty,  but 
most,  especially  the  small  mill-owners,  simply  be- 
cause it  no  longer  pays  to  steal  where  all  may  not 
only  steal,  but  also  destroy,  and  in  particular  be- 
cause it  costs  about  as  much  to  steal  timber  for 
one  mill  as  for  ten,  and,  therefore,  the  ordinary 
lumberman  can  no  longer  compete  with  the  large 
corporations.  Many  of  the  miners  find  that 
timber  is  already  becoming  scarce  and  dear  on 

1  A  change  for  the  better,  compelled  by  public  opinion,  is  mow 
going  on,  — 1901. 


346  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  denuded  hills  around  their  mills,  and  they, 
too,  are  asking  for  protection  of  forests,  at  least 
against  fire.  The  slow-going,  unthrifty  farmers, 
also,  are  beginning  to  realize  that  when  the  tim- 
ber is  stripped  from  the  mountains  the  irrigating 
streams  dry  up  in  summer,  and  are  destructive  in 
winter;  that  soil,  scenery,  and  everything  slips 
off  with  the  trees :  so  of  course  they  are  coming 
into  the  ranks  of  tree-friends. 

Of  all  the  magnificent  coniferous  forests 
around  the  Great  Lakes,  once  the  property  of 
the  United  States,  scarcely  any  belong  to  it  now. 
They  have  disappeared  in  lumber  and  smoke, 
mostly  smoke,  and  the  government  got  not  one 
cent  for  them  ;  only  the  land  they  were  growing 
on  was  considered  valuable,  and  two  and  a  half 
dollars  an  acre  was  charged  for  it.  Here  and 
there  in  the  Southern  States  there  are  still  con- 
siderable areas  of  timbered  government  land,  but 
these  are  comparatively  unimportant.  Only  the 
forests  of  the  West  are  significant  in  size  and 
value,  and  these,  although  still  great,  are  rapidly 
vanishing.  Last  summer,  of  the  unrivaled  red- 
wood forests  of  the  Pacific  Coast  Range,  the 
United  States  Forestry  Commission  could  not 
find  a  single  quarter-section  that  remained  in  the 
hands  of  the  government.1 

1  The  State  of  California  recently  appropriated  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars  to  buy  a  block  of  redwood  land  near  Santa 
Cruz  for  a  state  park.  A  much  larger  national  park  should  be  made 
in  Humboldt  or  Mendocino  county. 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  347 

Under  the  timber  and  stone  act  of  1878, 
which  might  well  have  been  called  the  "  dust 
and  ashes  act,"  any  citizen  of  the  United  States 
could  take  up  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of 
timber  land,  and  by  paying  two  dollars  and  a 
half  an  acre  for  it  obtain  title.  There  was  some 
virtuous  effort  made  with  a  view  to  limit  the  op- 
erations of  the  act  by  requiring  that  the  pur- 
chaser should  make  affidavit  that  he  was  entering 
the  land  exclusively  for  his  own  use,  and  by  not 
allowing  any  association  to  enter  more  than  one 
hundred  and  sixty  acres.  Nevertheless,  under 
this  act  wealthy  corporations  have  fraudulently 
obtained  title  to  from  ten  thousand  to  twenty 
thousand  acres  or  more.  The  plan  was  usually 
as  follows :  A  mill  company,  desirous  of  getting 
title  to  a  large  body  of  redwood  or  sugar-pine 
land,  first  blurred  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  land 
agents,  and  then  hired  men  to  enter  the  land 
they  wanted,  and  immediately  deed  it  to  the 
company  after  a  nominal  compliance  with  the 
law ;  false  swearing  in  the  wilderness  against  the 
government  being  held  of  no  account.  In  one 
case  which  came  under  the  observation  of  Mr. 
Bowers,  it  was  the  practice  of  a  lumber  company 
to  hire  the  entire  crew  of  every  vessel  which 
might  happen  to  touch  at  any  port  in  the  red- 
wood belt,  to  enter  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres 
each  and  immediately  deed  the  land  to  the  com- 
pany, in  consideration  of  the  company's  paying 


348  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

all  expenses  and  giving  the  jolly  sailors  fifty  dol- 
lars apiece  for  their  trouble. 

By  such  methods  have  our  magnificent  red- 
woods and  much  of  the  sugar-pine  forests  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada  been  absorbed  by  foreign  and  resi- 
dent capitalists.  Uncle  Sam  is  not  often  caUed 
a  fool  in  business  matters,  yet  he  has  sold  mil- 
lions of  acres  of  timber  land  at  two  dollars  and 
a  half  an  acre  on  which  a  single  tree  was  worth 
more  than  a  hundred  dollars.  But  this  priceless 
land  has  been  patented,  and  nothing  can  be  done 
now  about  the  crazy  bargain.  According  to  the 
everlasting  law  of  righteousness,  even  the  fraud- 
ulent buyers  at  less  than  one  per  cent  of  its 
value  are  making  little  or  nothing,  on  account 
of  fierce  competition.  The  trees  are  felled,  and 
about  half  of  each  giant  is  left  on  the  ground  to  be 
converted  into  smoke  and  ashes ;  the  better  half 
is  sawed  into  choice  lumber  and  sold  to  citizens 
of  the  United  States  or  to  foreigners :  thus  rob- 
bing the  country  of  its  glory  and  impoverishing 
it  without  right  benefit  to  anybody,  —  a  bad, 
black  business  from  beginning  to  end. 

The  redwood  is  one  of  the  few  conifers  that 
sprout  from  the  stump  and  roots,  and  it  declares 
itself  willing  to  begin  immediately  to  repair  the 
damage  of  the  lumberman  and  also  that  of  the 
forest-burner.  As  soon  as  a  redwood  is  cut  down 
or  burned  it  sends  up  a  crowd  of  eager,  hopeful 
shoots,  which,  if  allowed  to  grow,  would  in  a 


THR  AMERICAN  FORESTS  349 

few  decades  attain  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet, 
and  the  strongest  of  them  would  finally  become 
giants  as  great  as  the  original  tree.  Gigantic 
second  and  third  growth  trees  are  found  in  the 
redwoods,  forming  magnificent  temple-like  circles 
around  charred  ruins  more  than  a  thousand  years 
old.  But  not  one  denuded  acre  in  a  hundred  is 
allowed  to  raise  a  new  forest  growth.  On  the 
contrary,  all  the  brains,  religion,  and  superstition 
of  the  neighborhood  are  brought  into  play  to 
prevent  a  new  growth.  The  sprouts  from  the 
roots  and  stumps  are  cut  off  again  and  again, 
with  zealous  concern  as  to  the  best  time  and 
method  of  making  death  sure.  In  the  clearings 
of  one  of  the  largest  mills  on  the  coast  we  found 
thirty  men  at  work,  last  summer,  cutting  off  red- 
wood shoots  "  in  the  dark  of  the  moon,"  claiming 
that  all  the  stumps  and  roots  cleared  at  this 
auspicious  time  would  send  up  no  more  shoots. 
Anyhow,  these  vigorous,  almost  immortal  trees 
are  killed  at  last,  and  black  stumps  are  now  their 
only  monuments  over  most  of  the  chopped  and 
burned  areas. 

The  redwood  is  the  glory  of  the  Coast  Range. 
It  extends  along  the  western  slope,  in  a  nearly 
continuous  belt  about  ten  miles  wide,  from  be- 
yond the  Oregon  boundary  to  the  south  of  Santa 
Cruz,  a  distance  of  nearly  four  hundred  miles,  and 
in  massive,  sustained  grandeur  and  closeness  of 
growth  surpasses  all  the  other  timber  woods  of  the 


350  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

world.  Trees  from  ten  to  fifteen  feet  in  diame- 
ter and  three  hundred  feet  high  are  not  uncom- 
mon, and  a  few  attain  a  height  of  three  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  or  even  four  hundred,  with  a 
diameter  at  the  base  of  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  or 
more,  while  the  ground  beneath  them  is  a  gar- 
den of  fresh,  exuberant  ferns,  lilies,  gaultheria, 
and  rhododendron.  This  grand  tree,  Sequoia 
sempervirens,  is  surpassed  in  size  only  by  its  near 
relative,  Sequoia  gigantea,  or  Big  Tree,  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada,  if,  indeed,  it  is  surpassed.  The 
sempervirens  is  certainly  the  taller  of  the  two. 
The  gigantea  attains  a  greater  girth,  and  is 
heavier,  more  noble  in  port,  and  more  sublimely 
beautiful.  These  two  Sequoias  are  all  that  are 
known  to  exist  in  the  world,  though  in  former 
geological  times  the  genus  was  common  and  had 
many  species.  The  redwood  is  restricted  to  the 
Coast  Range,  and  the  Big  Tree  to  the  Sierra. 

As  timber  the  redwood  is  too  good  to  live. 
The  largest  sawmills  ever  built  are  busy  along 
its  seaward  border,  "  with  all  the  modern  im- 
provements," but  so  immense  is  the  yield  per 
acre  it  will  be  long  ere  the  supply  is  exhausted. 
The  Big  Tree  is  also,  to  some  extent,  being  made 
into  lumber.  It  is  far  less  abundant  than  the  red- 
wood, and  is,  fortunately,  less  accessible,  extend- 
ing along  the  western  flank  of  the  Sierra  in  a 
partially  interrupted  belt,  about  two  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  long,  at  a  height  of  from  four  to  eight 


ROAD    THROUGH  THE   SEQUOIAS,    MARIPOSA  GROVE 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  351 

thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  The  enormous  logs, 
too  heavy  to  handle,  are  blasted  into  manageable 
dimensions  with  gunpowder.  A  large  portion  of 
the  best  timber  is  thus  shattered  and  destroyed, 
and,  with  the  huge,  knotty  tops,  is  left  in  ruins 
for  tremendous  fires  that  kiU  every  tree  within 
their  range,  great  and  small.  Still,  the  species  is 
not  in  danger  of  extinction.  It  has  been  planted 
and  is  flourishing  over  a  great  part  of  Europe, 
and  magnificent  sections  of  the  aboriginal  forests 
have  been  reserved  as  national  and  State  parks, 
—  the  Mariposa  Sequoia  Grove,  near  Yosemite, 
managed  by  the  State  of  California,  and  the 
General  Grant  and  Sequoia  national  parks  on  the 
Kings,  Kaweah,  and  Tule  rivers,  efficiently 
guarded  by  a  small  troop  of  United  States  cav- 
alry under  the  direction  of  the  Secretary  of  the 
Interior.  But  there  is  not  a  single  specimen  of 
the  redwood  in  any  national  park.  Only  by  gift 
or  purchase,  so  far  as  I  know,  can  the  govern- 
ment get  back  into  its  possession  a  single  acre  of 
this  wonderful  forest. 

The  legitimate  demands  on  the  forests  that 
have  passed  into  private  ownership,  as  well  as 
those  in  the  hands  of  the  government,  are  increas- 
ing every  year  with  the  rapid  settlement  and  up- 
building of  the  country,  but  the  methods  of  lum- 
bering are  as  yet  grossly  wasteful.  In  most  mills 
only  the  best  portions  of  the  best  trees  are  used, 
while  the  ruins  are  left  on  the  ground  to  feed 


352  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

great  fires,  which  kill  much  of  what  is  left  of  the 
less  desirable  timber,  together  with  the  seedlings, 
on  which  the  permanence  of  the  forest  depends. 
Thus  every  mill  is  a  centre  of  destruction  far 
more  severe  from  waste  and  fire  than  from  use. 
The  same  thing  is  true  of  the  mines,  which  con- 
sume and  destroy  indirectly  immense  quantities 
of  timber  with  their  innumerable  fires,  acciden- 
tal or  set  to  make  open  ways,  and  often  without 
regard  to  how  far  they  run.  The  prospector 
deliberately  sets  fires  to  clear  off  the  woods  just 
where  they  are  densest,  to  lay  the  rocks  bare  and 
make  the  discovery  of  mines  easier.  Sheep- 
owners  and  their  shepherds  also  set  fires  every- 
where through  the  woods  in  the  fall  to  facilitate 
the  march  of  their  countless  flocks  the  next  sum- 
mer, and  perhaps  in  some  places  to  improve  the 
pasturage.  The  axe  is  not  yet  at  the  root  of 
every  tree,  but  the  sheep  is,  or  was  before  the 
national  parks  were  established  and  guarded  by 
the  military,  the  only  effective  and  reliable  arm  of 
the  government  free  from  the  blight  of  politics. 
Not  only  do  the  shepherds,  at  the  driest  time  of 
the  year,  set  fire  to  everything  that  will  burn, 
but  the  sheep  consume  every  green  leaf,  not 
sparing  even  the  young  conifers,  when  they  are 
in  a  starving  condition  from  crowding,  and  they 
rake  and  dibble  the  loose  soil  of  the  mountain 
sides  for  the  spring  floods  to  wash  away,  and 
thus  at  last  leave  the  ground  barren. 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  353 

Of  all  the  destroyers  that  infest  the  woods, 
the  shake-maker  seems  the  happiest.  Twenty  or 
thirty  years  ago,  shakes,  a  kind  of  long,  board- 
like  shingles  split  with  a  mallet  and  a  f row,  were 
in  great  demand  for  covering  barns  and  sheds, 
and  many  are  used  still  in  preference  to  common 
shingles,  especially  those  made  from  the  sugar- 
pine,  which  do  not  warp  or  crack  in  the  hottest 
sunshine.  Drifting  adventurers  in  California, 
after  harvest  and  threshing  are  over,  oftentimes 
meet  to  discuss  their  plans  for  the  winter,  and  their 
talk  is  interesting.  Once,  in  a  company  of  this 
kind,  I  heard  a  man  say,  as  he  peacefully  smoked 
his  pipe  :  "  Boys,  as  soon  as  this  job 's  done 
I  'm  goin'  into  the  duck  business.  There  's  big 
money  in  it,  and  your  grub  costs  nothing.  Tule 
Joe  made  five  hundred  dollars  last  winter  on 
mallard  and  teal.  Shot  'em  on  the  Joaquin,  tied 
'em  in  dozens  by  the  neck,  and  shipped  'em  to 
San  Francisco.  And  when  he  was  tired  wading 
in  the  sloughs  and  touched  with  rheumatiz,  he 
just  knocked  off  on  ducks,  and  went  to  the  Con- 
tra Costa  hills  for  dove  and  quail.  It 's  a  mighty 
good  business,  and  you  're  your  own  boss,  and 
the  whole  thing  's  fun." 

Another  of  the  company,  a  bushy-bearded  fel- 
low, with  a  trace  of  brag  in  his  voice,  drawled 
out :  "  Bird  business  is  well  enough  for  some,  but 
bear  is  my  game,  with  a  deer  and  a  California 
lion  thrown  in  now  and  then  for  change.  There 's 


354  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

always  market  for  bear  grease,  and  sometimes 
you  can  sell  the  hams.  They  're  good  as  hog 
hams  any  day.  And  you  are  your  own  boss  in 
my  business,  too,  if  the  bears  ain't  too  big  and 
too  many  for  you.  Old  grizzlies  I  despise,  — 
they  want  cannon  to  kill  'em;  but  the  blacks 
and  browns  are  beauties  for  grease,  and  when 
once  I  get  'em  just  right,  and  draw  a  bead  on 
'em,  I  fetch  'em  every  time."  Another  said  he 
was  going  to  catch  up  a  lot  .of  mustangs  as 
soon  as  the  rains  set  in,  hitch  them  to  a  gang- 
plough,  and  go  to  farming  on  the  San  Joaquin 
plains  for  wheat.  But  most  preferred  the  shake 
business,  until  something  more  profitable  and  as 
sure  could  be  found,  with  equal  comfort  and 
independence. 

With  a  cheap  mustang  or  mule  to  carry  a  pair 
of  blankets,  a  sack  of  flour,  a  few  pounds  of 
coffee,  and  an  axe,  a  frow,  and  a  cross-cut  saw, 
the  shake-maker  ascends  the  mountains  to  the 
pine  belt  where  it  is  most  accessible,  usually 
by  some  mine  or  mill  road.  Then  he  strikes  off 
into  the  virgin  woods,  where  the  sugar  pine,  king 
of  all  the  hundred  species  of  pines  in  the  world 
in  size  and  beauty,  towers  on  the  open  sunny 
slopes  of  the  Sierra  in  the  fullness  of  its  glory. 
Selecting  a  favorable  spot  for  a  cabin  near  a 
meadow  with  a  stream,  he,  unpacks  his  animal 
and  stakes  it  out  on  the  meadow.  Then  he 
chops  into  one  after  another  of  the  pines,  until 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  355 

he  finds  one  that  he  feels  sure  will  split  freely,  cuts 
this  down,  saws  off  a  section  four  feet  long,  splits 
it,  and  from  this  first  cut,  perhaps  seven  feet  in 
diameter,  he  gets  shakes  enough  for  a  cabin  and 
its  furniture,  —  walls,  roof,  door,  bedstead,  table, 
and  stool.  Besides  his  labor,  only  a  few  pounds 
of  nails  are  required.  Sapling  poles  form  the 
frame  of  the  airy  building,  usually  about  six  feet 
by  eight  in  size,  on  which  the  shakes  are  nailed, 
with  the  edges  overlapping.  A  few  bolts  from  the 
same  section  that  the  shakes  were  made  from  are 
split  into  square  sticks  and  built  up  to  form  a 
chimney,  the  inside  and  interspaces  being  plas- 
tered and  filled  in  with  mud.  Thus,  with  abun- 
dance of  fuel,  shelter  and  comfort  by  his  own 
fireside  are  secured.  Then  he  goes  to  work  saw- 
ing and  splitting  for  the  market,  tying  the  shakes 
in  bundles  of  fifty  or  a  hundred.  They  are  four 
feet  long,  four  inches  wide,  and  about  one  fourth 
of  an  inch  thick.  The  first  few  thousands  he 
sells  or  trades  at  the  nearest  mill  or  store,  getting 
provisions  in  exchange.  Then  he  advertises,  in 
whatever  way  he  can,  that  he  has  excellent  sugar- 
pine  shakes  for  sale,  easy  of  access  and  cheap. 

Only  the  lower,  perfectly  clear,  free-splitting 
portions  of  the  giant  pines  are  used,  —  perhaps 
ten  to  twenty  feet  from  a  tree  two  hundred  and 
fifty  in  height;  all  the  rest  is  left  a  mass  of 
ruins,  to  rot  or  to  feed  the  forest  fires,  while  thou- 
sands are  hacked  deeply  and  rejected  in  proving 


356  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  grain.  Over  nearly  all  of  the  more  acces- 
sible slopes  of  the  Sierra  and  Cascade  moun- 
tains in  southern  Oregon,  at  a  height  of  from 
three  to  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  for 
a  distance  of  about  six  hundred  miles,  this  waste 
and  confusion  extends.  Happy  robbers !  dwell- 
ing in  the  most  beautiful  woods,  in  the  most 
salubrious  climate,  breathing  delightful  odors 
both  day  and  night,  drinking  cool  living  water, 
—  roses  and  lilies  at  their  feet  in  the  spring, 
shedding  fragrance  and  ringing  bells  as  if  cheer- 
ing them  on  in  their  desolating  work.  There  is 
none  to  say  them  nay.  They  buy  no  land,  pay 
no  taxes,  dwell  in  a  paradise  with  no  forbidding 
angel  either  from  Washington  or  from  heaven. 
Every  one  of  the  frail  shake  shanties  is  a  centre 
of  destruction,  and  the  extent  of  the  ravages 
wrought  in  this  quiet  way  is  in  the  aggregate 
enormous. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that,  notwithstand- 
ing the  immense  quantities  of  timber  cut  every 
year  for  foreign  and  home  markets  and  mines, 
from  five  to  ten  times  as  much  is  destroyed  as  is 
used,  chiefly  by  running  forest  fires  that  only  the 
federal  government  can  stop.  Travelers  through 
the  West  in  summer  are  not  likely  to  forget  the  fire- 
work displayed  along  the  various  railway  tracks. 
Thoreau,  when  contemplating  the  destruction  of 
the  forests  on  the  east  side  of  the  continent,  said 
that  soon  the  country  would  be  so  bald  that  every 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  357 

man  would  have  to  grow  whiskers  to  hide  its 
nakedness,  but  he  thanked  God  that  at  least  the 
sky  was  safe.  Had  he  gone  West  he  would 
have  found  out  that  the  sky  was  not  safe ;  for  all 
through  the  summer  months,  over  most  of  the 
mountain  regions,  the  smoke  of  mill  and  forest 
fires  is  so  thick  and  black  that  no  sunbeam  can 
pierce  it.  The  whole  sky,  with  clouds,  sun, 
moon,  and  stars,  is  simply  blotted  out.  There  is 
no  real  sky  and  no  scenery.  Not  a  mountain  is 
left  in  the  landscape.  At  least  none  is  in  sight 
from  the  lowlands,  and  they  all  might  as  well  be 
on  the  moon,  as  far  as  scenery  is  concerned. 

The  half-dozen  transcontinental  railroad  com- 
panies advertise  the  beauties  of  their  lines  in  gor- 
geous many-colored  folders,  each  claiming  its  as 
the  u scenic  route."  "The  route  of  superior 
desolation  "  —  the  smoke,  dust,  and  ashes  route 
—  would  be  a  more  truthful  description.  Every 
train  rolls  on  through  dismal  smoke  and  bar- 
barous, melancholy  ruins;  and  the  companies 
might  well  cry  in  their  advertisements :  "  Come  ! 
travel  our  way.  Ours  is  the  blackest.  It  is  the 
only  genuine  Erebus  route.  The  sky  is  black 
and  the  ground  is  black,  and  on  either  side  there 
is  a  continuous  border  of  black  stumps  and  logs 
and  blasted  trees  appealing  to  heaven  for  help  as 
if  still  half  alive,  and  their  mute  eloquence  is  most 
interestingly  touching.  The  blackness  is  perfect. 
On  account  of  the  superior  skill  of  our  workmen, 


358  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

advantages  of  climate,  and  the  kind  of  trees, 
the  charring  is  generally  deeper  along  our  line, 
and  the  ashes  are  deeper,  and  the  confusion  and 
desolation  displayed  can  never  be  rivaled.  No 
other  route  on  this  continent  so  fully  illustrates 
the  abomination  of  desolation."  Such  a  claim 
would  be  reasonable,  as  each  seems  the  worst, 
whatever  route  you  chance  to  take. 

Of  course  a  way  had  to  be  cleared  through  the 
woods.  But  the  felled  timber  is  not  worked  up 
into  firewood  for  the  engines  and  into  lumber  for 
the  company's  use ;  it  is  left  lying  in  vulgar  con- 
fusion, and  is  fired  from  time  to  time  by  sparks 
from  locomotives  or  by  the  workmen  camping 
along  the  line.  The  fires,  whether  accidental  or 
set,  are  allowed  to  run  into  the  woods  as  far  as 
they  may,  thus  assuring  comprehensive  destruc- 
tion. The  directors  of  a  line  that  guarded 
against  fires,  and  cleared  a  clean  gap  edged  with 
living  trees,  and  fringed  and  mantled  with  the 
grass  and  flowers  and  beautiful  seedlings  that 
are  ever  ready  and  willing  to  spring  up,  might 
justly  boast  of  the  beauty  of  their  road ;  for  na- 
ture is  always  ready  to  heal  every  scar.  But 
there  is  no  such  road  on  the  western  side  of  the 
continent.  Last  summer,  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, I  saw  six  fires  started  by  sparks  from  a 
locomotive  within  a  distance  of  three  miles,  and 
nobody  was  in  sight  to  prevent  them  from  spread- 
ing. They  might  run  into  the  adjacent  forests 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  359 


and  burn  the  timber  from  hundreds  of  square 
miles ;  not  a  man  in  the  State  would  care  to 
spend  an  hour  in  fighting  them,  as  long  as  his 
own  fences  and  buildings  were  not  threatened. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  waste  and  use  which 
have  been  going  on  unchecked  like  a  storm  for 
more  than  two  centuries,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  — 
though  it  is  high  time  —  for  the  government 
to  begin  a  rational  administration  of  its  for- 
ests. About  seventy  million  acres  it  still  owns, 
—  enough  for  all  the  country,  if  wisely  used. 
These  residual  forests  are  generally  on  mountain 
slopes,  just  where  they  are  doing  the  most  good, 
and  where  their  removal  would  be  followed  by 
the  greatest  number  of  evils;  the  lands  they 
cover  are  too  rocky  and  high  for  agriculture,  and 
can  never  be  made  as  valuable  for  any  other  crop 
as  for  the  present  crop  of  trees.  It  has  been 
shown  over  and  over  again  that  if  these  moun- 
tains were  to  be  stripped  of  their  trees  and 
underbrush,  and  kept  bare  and  sodless  by  hordes 
of  sheep  and  the  innumerable  fires  the  shepherds 
set,  besides  those  of  the  millmen,  prospectors, 
shake-makers,  and  all  sorts  of  adventurers,  both 
lowlands  and  mountains  would  speedily  become 
little  better  than  deserts,  compared  with  their 
present  beneficent  fertility.  During  heavy  rain- 
falls and  while  the  winter  accumulations  of  snow 
were  melting,  the  larger  streams  would  swell  into 
destructive  torrents,  cutting  deep,  rugged-edged 


360  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

gullies,  carrying  away  the  fertile  humus  and  soil 
as  well  as  sand  and  rocks,  filling  up  and  over- 
flowing their  lower  channels,  and  covering  the 
lowland  fields  with  raw  detritus.  Drought  and 
barrenness  would  follow. 

In  their  natural  condition,  or  under  wise  man- 
agement, keeping  out  destructive  sheep,  prevent- 
ing fires,  selecting  the  trees  that  should  be  cut  for 
lumber,  and  preserving  the  young  ones  and  the 
shrubs  and  sod  of  herbaceous  vegetation,  these  for- 
ests would  be  a  never  failing  fountain  of  wealth 
and  beauty.  The  cool  shades  of  the  forest  give 
rise  to  moist  beds  and  currents  of  air,  and  the  sod 
of  grasses  and  the  various  flowering  plants  and 
shrubs  thus  fostered,  together  with  the  network 
and  sponge  of  tree  roots,  absorb  and  hold  back 
the  rain  and  the  waters  from  melting  snow, 
compelling  them  to  ooze  and  percolate  and  flow 
gently  through  the  soil  in  streams  that  never 
dry.  All  the  pine  needles  and  rootlets  and 
blades  of  grass,  and  the  fallen,  decaying  trunks 
of  trees,  are  dams,  storing  the  bounty  of  the 
clouds  and  dispensing  it  in  perennial  life-giving 
streams,  instead  of  allowing  it  to  gather  suddenly 
and  rush  headlong  in  short-lived  devastating 
floods.  Everybody  on  the  dry  side  of  the  con- 
tinent is  beginning  to  find  this  out,  and,  in  view 
of  the  waste  going  on,  is  growing  more  and 
more  anxious  for  government  protection.  The 
outcries  we  hear  against  forest  reservations  come 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  361 

mostly  from  thieves  who  are  wealthy  and  steal 
timber  by  wholesale.  They  have  so  long  been 
allowed  to  steal  and  destroy  in  peace  that  any 
impediment  to  forest  robbery  is  denounced  as  a 
cruel  and  irreligious  interference  with  "vested 
rights/'  likely  to  endanger  the  repose  of  all 
ungodly  welfare. 

Gold,  gold,  gold  !  How  strong  a  voice  that 
metal  has ! 

"  O  wae  for  the  siller,  it  is  sae  preva'lin' !  " 

Even  in  Congress  a  sizable  chunk  of  gold,  care- 
fully concealed,  will  outtalk  and  outfight  all  the 
nation  on  a  subject  like  forestry,  well  smothered 
in  ignorance,  and  in  which  the  money  interests  of 
only  a  few  are  conspicuously  involved.  Under 
these  circumstances,  the  bawling,  blethering  ora- 
torical stuff  drowns  the  voice  of  Qod  himself. 
Yet  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  in  forestry  is  break- 
ing. Honest  citizens  see  that  only  the  rights  of 
the  government  are  being  trampled,  not  those 
of  the  settlers.  Only  what  belongs  to  all  alike 
is  reserved,  and  every  acre  that  is  left  should  be 
held  together  under  the  federal  government  as  a 
basis  for  a  general  policy  of  administration  for 
the  public  good.  The  people  will  not  always  be 
deceived  by  selfish  opposition,  whether  from  lum- 
ber and  mining  corporations  or  from  sheepmen 
and  prospectors,  however  cunningly  brought  for- 
ward underneath  fables  and  gold. 

Emerson  says  that  things  refuse  to  be  misman- 


362  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

aged  long.  An  exception  would  seem  to  be 
found  in  the  case  of  our  forests,  which  have 
been  mismanaged  rather  long,  and  now  come 
desperately  near  being  like  smashed  eggs  and 
spilt  milk.  Still,  in  the  long  run  the  world  does 
not  move  backward.  The  wonderful  advance 
made  in  the  last  few  yeajs,  in  creating  four  na- 
tional parks  in  the  West,  and  thirty  forest  reser- 
vations, embracing  nearly  forty  million  acres ; 
and  in  the  planting  of  the  borders  of  streets  and 
highways  and  spacious  parks  in  all  the  great 
cities,  to  satisfy  the  natural  taste  and  hunger 
for  landscape  beauty  and  righteousness  that  God 
has  put,  in  some  measure,  into  every  human 
being  and  animal,  shows  the  trend  of  awakening 
public  opinion.  The  making  of  the  far-famed 
New  York  Central  Park  was  opposed  by  even, 
good  men,  with  misguided  pluck,  perseverance, 
and  ingenuity ;  but  straight  right  won  its  way,  and 
now  that  park  is  appreciated.  So  we  confidently 
believe  it  will  be  with  our  great  national  parks  and 
forest  reservations.  There  will  be  a  period  of 
indifference  on  the  part  of  the  rich,  sleepy  with 
wealth,  and  of  the  toiling  millions,  sleepy  with 
poverty,  most  of  whom  never  saw  a  forest ;  a 
period  of  screaming  protest  and  objection  from 
the  plunderers,  who  are  as  unconscionable  and 
enterprising  as  Satan.  But  light  is  surely  com- 
ing, and  the  friends  of  destruction  will  preach 
and  bewail  in  vain. 


THE   AMERICAN  FORESTS  363 

The  United  States  government  has  always 
been  proud  of  the  welcome  it  has  extended  to 
good  men  of  every  nation,  seeking  freedom  and 
homes  and  bread.  Let  them  be  welcomed  still 
as  nature  welcomes  them,  to  the  woods  as  well  as 
to  the  prairies  and  plains.  No  place  is  too  good 
for  good  men,  and  still  there  is  room.  They  are 
invited  to  heaven,  and  may  well  be  allowed  in 
America.  Every  place  is  made  better  by  them. 
Let  them  be  as  free  to  pick  gold  and  gems  from 
the  hills,  to  cut  and  hew,  dig  and  plant,  for  homes 
and  bread,  as  the  birds  are  to  pick  berries  from 
the  wild  bushes,  and  moss  and  leaves  for  nests. 
The  ground  will  be  glad  to  feed  them,  and  the 
pines  will  come  down  from  the  mountains  for 
their  homes  as  willingly  as  the  cedars  came  from 
Lebanon  for  Solomon's  temple.  Nor  will  the 
woods  be  the  worse  for  this  use,  or  their  benign 
influences  be  diminished  any  more  than  the  sun  is 
diminished  by  shining.  Mere  destroyers,  how- 
ever, tree-killers,  wool  and  mutton  men,  spread- 
ing death  and  confusion  in  the  fairest  groves 
and  gardens  ever  planted,  —  let  the  government 
hasten  to  cast  them  out  and  make  an  end  of  them. 
For  it  must  be  told  again  and  again,  and  be  burn- 
ingly  borne  in  mind,  that  just  now,  while  pro- 
tective measures  are  being  deliberated  languidly, 
destruction  and  use  are  speeding  on  faster  and 
farther  every  day.  The  axe  and  saw  are  in- 
sanely busy,  chips  are  flying  thick  as  snowflakes, 


364  OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  every  summer  thousands  of  acres  of  priceless 
forests,  with  their  underbrush,  soil,  springs,  cli- 
mate, scenery,  and  religion,  are  vanishing  away 
in  clouds  of  smoke,  while,  except  in  the  national 
parks,  not  one  forest  guard  is  employed. 

All  sorts  of  local  laws  and  regulations  have 
been  tried  and  found  wanting,  and  the  costly 
lessons  of  our  own  experience,  as  well  as  that  of 
every  civilized  nation,  show  conclusively  that  the 
fate  of  the  remnant  of  our  forests  is  m  the 
hands  of  the  federal  government,  and  that  if  the 
remnant  is  to  be  saved  at  all,  it  must  be  saved 
quickly. 

Any  fool  can  destroy  trees.  They  cannot 
run  away ;  and  if  they  could,  they  would  still 
be  destroyed,  —  chased  and  hunted  down  as 
long  as  fun  or  a  dollar  could  be  got  out  of  their 
bark  hides,  branching  horns,  or  magnificent  bole 
backbones.  Few  that  fell  trees  plant  them ;  nor 
would  planting  avail  much  towards  getting  back 
anything  like  the  noble  primeval  forests.  During 
a  man's  life  only  saplings  can  be  grown,  in  the 
place  of  the  old  trees  —  tens  of  centuries  old  — 
that  have  been  destroyed.  It  took  more  than 
three  thousand  years  to  make  some  of  the  trees 
in  these  Western  woods,  —  trees  that  are  still 
standing  in  perfect  strength  and  beauty,  waving 
and  singing  in  the  mighty  forests  of  the  Sierra. 
Through  all  the  wonderful,  eventful  centuries 
since  Christ's  time  —  and  long  before  that  — 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS  365 

God  has  cared  for  these  trees,  saved  them  from 
drought,  disease,  avalanches,  and  a  thousand 
straining,  leveling  tempests  and  floods ;  but  he 
cannot  save  them  from  fools,  —  only  Uncle  Sam 
can  do  that. 


OF  THE 
UNIVEK3ITV 


INDEX 


ADENOSTEMA  f asciculatum,heath- 
like  shrub,  its  influence  on  the 
physiognomy  of  Sierra  land- 
scapes, 142. 

Age  of  trees,  pine,  69,  104,  107, 
108,  114,  275 ;  libocedrus,  118 ; 
jumper,  124;  fir,  275,  276; 
sequoia,  260, 275-280,  297,  299. 

Alaska,  plants  and  animals  of, 
7-11. 

Alpenglow,  74. 

Apple,  wild,  22,  23. 

Aspen,  131. 

Aster,  164. 

Avalanches,  snow,  27,  251-255; 
rock,  140,  259. 

Azalea,  146,  181,  303. 

Axe  clearings,  101. 

Bear-hunters,  353 ;  Duncan,  179 ; 

David    Brown    and    his     dog 

Sandy,  181. 
Bears,  28,  52,  57,  144,  314;  food 

of  Sierra,  172  ;  interviews  with 

174,    177;    tracks,    178;    and 

sheep,  185. 
Beaver,  16,  25,  53. 
Beaver,  mountain,  201. 
Beaver  meadows,  23,  37. 
Birds,    of    the    Yosemite    Park, 

213. 

Blackberries,  24. 
Bogs,  139,  166. 
Brodisea,  23,  155. 
Bryanthus,  148. 

California,  floweriness  of,  137. 
Calochortus,  23,  145. 
Calypso  borealis,  7,  23. 
Camassia,  156. 
Campanula,  282. 
Camping,  56,  133,  161,  163. 
Canon,  the  Grand,  of  the  Colorado, 


35  ;  Yellowstone,  49 ;    Merced, 

259 ;  Tuolumne,  259. 
Cafions  of  the  Sierra,  83. 
Cassiope,  147. 
Cathedral  Peak,  90. 
Ceanothus,  145. 

Cedar,  incense,  116  ;  red,  123,  273. 
Chamsebatia    foliolosa,    a    forest 

carpet,  143. 

Chaparral,  142,  144,  146. 
Cherry,  23,  146. 
Chestnut,  22. 
Chinquapin,  146. 
Chipmunk,  196. 
Climates  of  the  Sierra,  138,  160, 

161,  164. 
Clintonia,  18,  23. 
Clouds,  77,  164,  276,  281. 
Colds,  133. 
Coyote,  194. 
Crow,  Clarke,  228. 
Crystals,  161. 
Currants,  24. 
Cypripedium,  156. 

Daisy,  94,  149. 
Danger,  28,  57,  133,  184,  208. 
Deer,  189,  315. 
Deserts,  6. 
De  Soto,  71. 

Diver,  great  northern,  227. 
Dog,  Carlo,  175  ;  Sandy,  181. 
Dogwood,  flowering,  22,  130. 
Douglas,  David,  in  forests  of  Ore- 
gon, 110. 

Duck-hunters,  353. 
Ducks,  226. 
Dwarf  willow,  94. 

Eagle,  228. 

Earthquake,  261;  ancient,  265; 
taluses,  formation  of,  260 ;  influ- 
ence on  cation  scenery,  265. 


368 


INDEX 


Emerson,  his  visit  to  Yosemite  and 
the  Mariposa  Grove  of  Big 
Trees,  131,  235. 

Eriogonum,  149,  166. 

Erythronium,  23,  31. 

Farm  lands  of  Washington  and 
Oregon,  24,  25. 

Ferns,  149,  160;  Woodwardia, 
149;  Pteris,  150;  Pellsea,  five 
species  of,  151 ;  Cryptogramme, 
151;  Phegopteris,  151;  Cheil- 
anthes,  three  species  of,  152 ; 
Adiantum,  two  species,  152. 

Fir.     See  Silver  fir. 

Floods,  256. 

Floral  cascades,  159. 

Flower  beds  of  the  Sierra,  142. 

Flowers,  of  pine,  spruce,  fir,  and 
hemlock,  168,  169;  sequoia, 
284. 

Forest  fires,  297,  307,  335,  352, 
356-359. 

Forest  picture,  302. 

Forest  Reservations,  Rocky  Moun- 
tain, 15 ;  Pacific  Coast,  19,  31, 
34;  opposition  to,  24,  360; 
wildness  of,  24. 

Forest  Reserve,  Black  Hills,  13 ; 
Bitter  Root,  16 ;  Flathead,  17  ; 
Sierra,  31 ;  Grand  Canon,  34. 

Forest  sepulchres,  64. 

Forests,  growing  interest  in,  2,  5, 
33 ;  of  the  Cascade  Mountains, 
22 ;  fossil,  60 ;  of  the  Yellow- 
stone Park,  67 ;  Sierra,  80,  98- 
136 ;  Giant,  of  the  Kaweah,  300  ; 
of  the  Tule  River,  318 ;  Ameri- 
can, 331  ;  destruction  of,  336, 
344 ;  influence  on  streams,  337, 
346,  359  ;  management  of,  337- 
365;  redwood  (Sequoia  semper- 
virens),  347-352. 

Fountains  of  the  Sierra,  241,  245. 

Fritillaria,  23,  156. 

Frogs,  211. 

Frost  crystals,  165. 

Gardens,  wild,  of  California,  5 ; 
the  East,  6;  Alaska,  7  ;  Black 
Hills,  14 ;  Rocky  Mountains, 
18,  19 ;  Cascade  Mountains,  23, 
30;  Sierra,  137-142;  forest 
155 ;  cliff,  157 ;  wall,  159 ;  pot- 


hole, shadow,  alpine,  160  ;  win- 
ter, 161;  meadow,  163;  sky, 
Mono,  and  tree,  167. 

Gaultheria,  23,  350. 

Geese,  225. 

General  Grant  National  Park  and 
tree,  298. 

Gentians,  94,  142,  164. 

Geyser  basins,  43,  44. 

Geyser  craters,  46. 

Geysers,  38,  41,  43,  53  ;  distribu- 
tion of,  55. 

Giants  of  Sierra  forests,  108; 
Western,  116. 

Glacial  action,  84,  92,  96,  138. 

Glacial  and  post-glacial  denuda- 
tion, 84,  89. 

Glacial  period,  64,  65,  78,  96,  242. 

Glacier  lakes,  78,  95. 

Glacier  landscapes,  65,  91. 

Glacier  meadows,  37,  163. 

Glacier  monuments,  84. 

Glacier  pavements,  83,  84-86. 

Glacier  sparrow,  231. 

Glaciers,  19,  30,  64,  78 ;  of  the 
Sierra,  95 ;  ancient  Tuolumne. 
88,90. 

Goat,  wild,  24,  29. 

Gold,  influence  of,  11,  361. 

Goldenrods,  17,  142,  164. 

Gray,  Asa,  33. 

Great  Basin,  the,  94. 

Grouse,  215. 

Hackmatack,  18. 

Hawks,  228. 

Hay  den,  F.  V.,  his  work  exploring 
the  Yellowstone  region,  and  get- 
ting it  set  apart  as  a  national 
park,  39. 

Hazel,  23, 146. 

Hazel  Green,  81. 

Heathworts,  23,  147. 

Hemlock,  mountain,  125,  170. 

Home-going,  98. 

Honeysuckle,  142,  147. 

Hooker,  Sir  Joseph,  33. 

Hothouses,  natural,  161. 

Hot  springs,  38,  41,  43,  54. 

Huckleberries,  24. 

Hulsea,  167. 

Hunters  and  trappers,  51,  58. 

Indian  summer,  165,  283,  316. 


INDEX 


Indians,  24,  51,  263;  their  or- 
chards, 105 ;  hunting  grounds, 
14,  122,  193 ;  tame,  317. 

Johnson,  Dr.,  on  the  trees  of  Scot- 
land, 108. 

Joliet  and  Father  Marquette  on 
the  upper  Mississippi,  71. 

Juniper,  western,  123,  273. 

Lakes,  McDonald,  18 ;  Avalanche, 
19 ;  Yellowstone,  47,  70 ;  Mono, 
94 ,  Tahoe,  48 ;  Tenaya,  86. 

Landscapes,  new,  3  ;  changes  in, 
4 ;  of  the  Sierra,  87. 

Landslip,  287. 

Larch,  western,  18 ;  Lyall,  18. 

Lark,  meadow,  238. 

La  Salle,  71. 

Lewis  and  Clark,  28. 

Library,  geological,  59. 

Light,  82,  165. 

Lightning,  276. 

Lilies,  23,  153,  155,  350. 

Linnsea  borealis  and  companions, 
18,  50. 

Lizards,  204. 

Log  houses,  288,  305,  320. 

Loggers,  29. 

Lumbering  in  the  Sierra,  100. 

Man,  influence  on  landscapes,  4. 

Manzanita,  143. 

Maple,  22,  130. 

Mariposa  tulip,  155. 

Marmot,  17,  199. 

Meadows,  glacier,  37,  163 ;  in  se- 
quoia woods,  296,  302. 

Monardella,  282. 

Moneses,  18. 

Monument,  the  Glacier,  87. 

Mosses,  22. 

Mt.  Rainier,  30;  Amethyst,  60, 
73 ;  Washburn,  66 ;  Dana,  90, 
93;  Lyell,  McClure,  Gibbs, 
90 ;  Hoffman,  161. 

Mountaineering,  285,  306. 

Mountains,  the  Western,  2 ;  new, 
4;  Cascade,  19;  Olympic,  19; 
Rocky,  12-18,  37,  38 ;  Sierra, 
76. 

Mud,  44. 

Mule,  Brownie,  285,  295,  301 ;  his 
prayer,  318. 


Names,  58. 

Nature,  56,  73,  97,  332;  labora- 
tories of,  44. 
Night  air,  133. 
Nights,  165. 
Nuts,  pine,  103. 

Oaks,  California  black,  128 ;  gold- 

cup  live-oak,  128. 
Orchids,  23, 156. 
Ousel,  water,  29,  52,  238. 
Owens  River  water,  246. 

Parks,  national,  of  the  West,  12 ; 
Mt.  Rainier,  30;  Yellowstone, 
37  ;  Yosemite,  76  ;  animals  of, 
172,  201;  birds,  213;  General 
Grant  and  Sequoia,  298,  328, 
329 ;  management  of,  40,  351. 

Petrified  forests,  38,  60.    • 

Phlox,  94. 

Pika,  162,  201. 

Pine,  yellow,  13,  112,  115 ;  con- 
torted,  lodge-pole,  Murray,  two- 
leaved,  tamarack,  15,  18,  67, 
68,  83,  121,  122 ;  mountain,  18, 
108;  Sabine,  102;  hard  cone 
(attenuata),  103 ;  dwarf,  106  ; 
sugar,  100, 109  ;  nut,  105 ;  white, 
68,  105. 

Plover,  227. 

Plum,  23. 

Polemonium,  alpine,  167. 

Poplar,  130. 

Primrose,  shrubby,  147. 

Prospectors,  289,  352. 

Pyrola,  18. 

Quail,  mountain,  219 ;  valley,  222. 

Railroads  in  western  forests,  357. 

Rain,  26. 

Raspberries,  24. 

Rat,  wood,  201. 

Rattlesnakes,  28,  57,  206. 

Redwood,  100,  268. 

Reservations.  See  Forest  Reserva- 
tions. 

Rhododendron,  23, 146,  350. 

Ribes,  282. 

River,  the  Yellowstone,  48 ;  Mis- 
sissippi, 71 ;  Columbia,  73 ; 
Missouri,  73;  Colorado,  73; 


370 


ESTDEX 


Tuolumne,  95,  258  ;  Merced,  95, 

258 ;  San  Joaquin,  95. 
Rivers,  37  ;  Sierra,  242. 
Riverside  trees,  130. 
Robin,  236. 
Rock  ferns,  149. 
Rose,  23,  147,  282. 
Rubus,  147. 

Sage-cock,  214. 

Salmon  berries,  24. 

Sandhill  crane,  227. 

Sanger  Lumber  Co.,  298. 

Sarcodes,  281. 

Sawmills,  in  sequoia  woods,  292, 
298,  299,  319,  351. 

Scenery,  habit,  2,  3 ;  best,  care- 
killing,  17  ;  canon,  259,  266. 

Seed  collectors,  101. 

Seeds  of  conifers,  120. 

Sequoia  ditches,  291. 

Sequoia  gigantea,  268 ;  cones, 
274;  age,  275;  death,  276; 
groves  in  spring,  281 ;  summer, 
282;  autumn,  283;  winter, 
283;  studies,  285;  seedlings, 
297;  young  trees,  288,  296; 
oldest,  297 ;  size  of,  294,  322 ; 
durability  of  wood,  291 ;  gum, 
292 ;  groves  of  Yosemite  Park, 
109  ;  Mariposa  Grove,  286, 328 ; 
Fresno  Grove,  287-292  ;  Dinky 
Grove,  293 ;  forests  of  Kings 
River,  295  ;  Kaweah  and  Tule 
river  basins,  300,  314,  316  ;  dis- 
tribution of,  322,  325  ;  perma- 
nence of  the  species,  323 ;  in- 
fluence on  streams,  324,  329. 

Shake-makers,  298,  353. 

Sheep,  wild,  194  ;  hoofed  locusts, 
317,  318,  352. 

Shepherds,  33,  185,  293,  317. 

Sierra  climate,  change  of,  324. 

Silex  pavements,  46. 

Silver  fir,  alpine,  31,  68,  170; 
magnificent,  83,  118,  170  ; 
white,  noble,  grand,  and 
lovely,  119,  170. 

Snow,  26,  247. 

Snow  avalanches,  251. 

Snow  plant  (Sarcodes),  156,  281. 

Snowstorms,  249,  283. 

Soil,  65,  67 ;  moraine,  100,  138 ; 


crystal,   140,  161;    earthquake 

boulder,  140,  259. 
Sparrow,  the  glacier,  231. 
Spiraea,  142. 
Spiritual  world,  the,  74. 
Springs,  244,  245 ;  soda,  247. 
Spruce,  Engelmann,  14,  68 ;  Doug- 
las, 19,  22,  68, 100,  116 ;  Sitka, 

170.     ' 
Squirrels,  19,  52,  192,  194,  274, 

284. 

Storms,  267. 
Streams  of  the  Sierra,   241,   246, 

248  ;  in  spring,  256 ;  in  summer 

and  autumn,  257. 
Sunflowers,  crystal,  162. 
Swamps,  7. 

Talus,  earthquake,  140,  259. 

Tamarack,  18. 

Thoreau,  his  description  of  the 
pistillate  flowers  of  the  white 
pine,  169;  on  the  destruction 
of  trees  and  shrubs,  356. 

Torreya,  131. 

Tourists,  21,  27,  53. 

Trapper,  57. 

Travel,  modern,  1,  50, 56. 

Tree  flowers,  168;  how  best  to 
see  them,  165. 

Tree  gardens,  167. 

Trout,  18,  48,  67,  211. 

Tumion,  131. 

Tundra,  Alaska,  7. 

Vaccinium,  18,  94,  148. 

Valley,  Central,  of  California,  5, 

137. 

Violets,  142,  281. 
Volcanic  cones,  30,  94. 
Volcanic  rocks,  60. 
Volcanic  storms,  61. 
Volcanoes,  30  ;  mud,  51. 

Water,  action  of,  on  soilbeds,  138. 
Water,  Owens  River,  246. 
Waterfalls,  Yellowstone,  49 ;  Ka- 
weah, 300. 

Wildness,  2  ;  unchangeable,  4. 
Willow,  dwarf,  94. 
Wind,  action  of,  on  soilbeds,  139. 
Woodchuck,  199. 
Woodpeckers,  233,  282. 
Wood-rat,  201. 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  <5r»  Cf* 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Muir 


118526 


Our  riatinal  parks' 


230  p 
fl  953 


Jan  2  1912  |  Hail 


